


History Cannot Be Abridged

by flecksofpoppy



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Fraternity, Dirty Talk, Falling In Love, First Time, Friends to Lovers, M/M, POV Marco Bott
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-03
Updated: 2015-06-07
Packaged: 2018-03-10 07:15:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 56,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3281600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flecksofpoppy/pseuds/flecksofpoppy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jean, new freshman pledge in a fraternity that does things like help organize Take Back the Night and fulfill civic duties, has a massive crush on upperclassman, Marco Bodt. What they're not expecting is each other.</p><p>A tale spawned from literally two lines in a Springles college AU commission fic I wrote.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Initiations

**Author's Note:**

> This one just grew out of control after literally two lines in a [Springles commission fic](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2593838/chapters/5776079) about Jean having a big old crush on Marco. Feedback much appreciated! First college AU. O_o;;
> 
> Thank you to tumblr users enjouji, shingekinoboyfriends and mjolklizard for reading this in its different phases.
> 
> Omg, and a mystery person made a playlist in Nov 2016 that I JUST found out about in April 2017! Check it out here: <https://8tracks.com/fatmonstermovement/home-away>

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This takes place directly following the party referenced in the second chapter of the Springles AU. Basically, it's the first party at the frat. Connie goes on a cute date with Sasha, and Jean gets a little more than he bargained for...
> 
> Oh, and just fyi: this chapter contains some references to vomiting form alcohol. It's intended to be comedic and not serious, but if that triggers you or isn't cool, fyi! It's only referenced in the first part.
> 
> Thank you to tumblr users enjouji, shingekinoboyfriends and mjolklizard for reading this in its different phases.

**Aftermath of the Party, Fall Semester (Jean’s freshman year, Marco’s junior year)**

Marco’s been sitting at his desk chair for at least an hour now with a cup of coffee, reading the news on his phone as he waits for the haggard figure huddled in his bed under the sheets and comforter to wake up.

Jean finally stirs and rolls onto his side to face Marco. It almost hurts to watch him squint painfully in the morning light, obviously confused as he slowly tries to regain his bearings. Within seconds, though, a look of absolute horror passes over his face as he finally focuses on Marco. 

Suddenly, his breath hitches and he slaps his hand over his mouth, giving a few dry heaves; to Marco’s relief, he manages to control it and stop just in time.

“C’mon,” Marco says, standing to walk over and push Jean back toward the pillow, “you’re not going anywhere. Just focus on drinking some water.”

Jean groans miserably as he reaches for the bottle of water Marco’s placed on the nightstand next to the bed and takes a few slow sips.

“This isn’t my room,” he observes suddenly, his eyes widening as they dart around wildly, taking everything in.

“Nope,” Marco confirms with a curt nod.

“This is your room,” Jean continues, his voice incredulous and mortified.

“Yup,” Marco says with a nod, turning to roll the desk chair closer to the bed and retake his seat. “Nice, huh?” 

Jean gives a pained, embarrassed groan and covers his face with one hand; when he opens his eyes again, though, he abruptly yanks up the covers to look underneath. A deep, crimson blush promptly flushes his cheeks, and he bites his lip.

Marco very pointedly ignores the fact that, even after a night of drinking, puking his guts out, and nursing what’s sure to be one hell of a hangover, the sheepish, vulnerable expression Jean’s wearing is absolutely adorable.

“This is... your shirt,” he guesses after a few beats of awkward silence.

Marco hums another affirmative, and then, feeling a little sorry for Jean even though he acted out the worst type of college freshman stereotype the night before, gives a good-natured smile. “Yeah...”

Jean just stares at him, obviously baffled by this fact.

“Well,” Marco continues diplomatically, “you threw up on yours.” He cringes, but decides to be blunt as he adds, “A lot.”

“Bullshit,” Jean challenges immediately, his eyes wide, as if refusing to accept this humiliating truth.

“You want me to get your shirt to prove it?” Marco retorts, raising a critical eyebrow.

“Ugh, no,” Jean whimpers miserably. He risks another glance under the sheets and swallows hard. “I’m also not wearing pants.”

 _“Oh,”_ Marco snorts, “I’m well aware.”

“Care to tell me why you took off my pants?” Jean replies, swallowing hard with a fast reemerging blush. He self-consciously pulls the blankets further up to his neck.

“Me?” Marco retorts in surprise.

Jean just stares at him for a moment, until Marco sees some of the memory start to return.

“Did I...” Jean trails off, his eyes huge now.

“Try to...?” Marco prompts, attempting not to sound as amused as he is by this entire situation.

“Give you a lap dance?” Jean finishes in a horrified whisper.

The fact that Marco manages to keep a straight face makes him feel like maybe he should’ve pursued a degree in drama studies, rather than English literature.

“Well, after you said something I won’t repeat about the nature of Connie and Sasha’s relationship, Connie suggested to you at a crucial point in the evening that it’d be a good way to...” Marco clears his throat awkwardly. “To ‘win me over.’”

“I’m gonna fucking kill him...” Jean growls. Then, he sobers and looks at Marco with a pitiful expression. “But... you just let me do it?”

Marco makes a pained face. “Well, it was just easier to let you drunkenly strip, since you started throwing up halfway through.”

“I threw up on you?” Jean replies tonelessly.

“If it’s any consolation, you threw up more on yourself than me.” Marco figures it’s better to just admit what happened—like ripping off a band aid. “Uh, then you laid in the bathroom for a while after everyone left, cried about how you miss home, threw up some more, and then I put you to bed.”

Jean is now sinking underneath the covers completely and pulling them over his head as he mumbles, “I’m never— _ever_ —leaving this room again.”

“Well, I was only one there at that point, and I won’t tell anyone,” Marco reassures him.

Jean peeks his face out over the blankets and stares at Marco in disbelief.

“Now,” Marco offers, standing up, “how about some plain toast?”

“No, thanks,” Jean mutters, trying to sit up. “I’m just going back to my room.”

“Uh...” Marco says sheepishly, “there aren’t any sheets on your bed.”

“You’re fucking with me,” Jean replies flatly, staring at Marco.

“Nope.” Marco just pats him on the shoulder sympathetically and directs him to lie back down. “Listen,” he says seriously, “I have an older sister who did stuff like this for me in high school, so don’t worry about it. It’s your first semester, and you’d be surprised how many people end up like you did last night. It’s no big deal.”

Marco waits for the response, and realizes that Jean is weighing the words, searching Marco’s face to see if he’s lying.

Despite himself, Marco is immediately intrigued. He would’ve expected someone like Jean to just laugh it off, take the opportunity to forget it and act cool, and then probably do it all over again.

“Well,” Jean finally grunts, seemingly satisfied with Marco’s sincerity, “um, okay. I mean, I guess it wasn’t that bad, right?”

“Oh, don’t get me wrong,” Marco corrects, standing up with a sad laugh and a yawn, “it was bad. I didn’t even know a person could throw up that much without losing an organ in the process.”

Jean rolls over and drops the charade, whining pathetically and burying his face in the pillow.

“Toast?” Marco tries again.

“You’re not my mom,” Jean grunts, curling into a ball.

“Watch out,” Marco warns, pointing at Jean. “I’ll call your mom. I have her number.”

“What?” Jean cries, rolling onto his back with a look of absolute terror. “Don’t call my mom!”

“Yup,” Marco nods, not able to fight back his grin. “When you submitted the pledge application, you had to put down a home number.”

“You wouldn’t,” Jean breathes, staring up at Marco with wide, disbelieving eyes.

“No, I wouldn’t,” Marco agrees. “Or rather, I _won’t_... if you eat something and stop looking like a kicked puppy.”

“Well,” Jean sniffs, sliding down further under Marco’s blankets again so that his voice is muffled, “it’s just embarrassing.”

Marco knows very well that Jean doesn’t just mean the drunken antics, but he gives a friendly smile nonetheless. He can’t deny the fact that Jean’s crush is flattering, but Marco’s also not an egomaniac. If anything, it’s cute, and refreshing that Jean isn’t overcompensating to prove his heterosexuality. He’s oddly sweet that way, even though he’s also sort of a pain in the ass.

Marco honestly doesn’t know what to make of him.

“It’s only embarrassing if you keep _saying_ it’s embarrassing,” Marco finally replies with a roll of his eyes.

To Marco’s surprise, Jean doesn’t argue with that point, and finally pulls himself out of bed with a blush and mumble of “thank you” to shower, don some clean clothes, and change his own sheets.

He gives Marco a grateful look as he joins a few of their other housemates downstairs in the kitchen, where even Connie looks like he’s nursing a mild hangover.

And just like that, Jean stops blushing quite so often.

= = =

End of Fall Semester (Jean’s freshman year, Marco’s junior year)

It’s not the best decision to entertain the possibility of fucking one of the new freshman pledges.

No matter how much he stares at you when you walk down the hall to your room with a towel around your waist, and then looks away when you look at him, fumbling with an oversized survey class textbook as if he was busy doing something else.

No matter how cute it is when he wakes up, grumpy and fumbling around for the special cereal his mother sends religiously every few weeks in the care packages that are obviously assembled with great care and love.

No matter how hot he looks when he finally takes Connie’s advice to clean up his appearance by putting some styling wax in his hair and shaving as a way “to attract ladies.”

No matter how you’re pretty sure that even if he liked girls (still up in the air) he’d probably have more luck swallowing his own tongue than actually asking one out.

No matter that he’s actually—for all his smarmy bullshit—one of the most sincere people under the layers of snark you’ve had the pleasure of meeting in a while.

But “you”—being Marco Bodt—also aren’t stupid enough that you’d fuck a freshman who probably doesn’t know what he wants, much less one of your pledges.

Sometimes, though, shit happens.

= = =

“So, this totally sucks,” Jean growls, looking at the paper Shadis just handed back to him as he turns around in his chair to look at Marco. “How’d I get a B?! I busted my ass for this paper.” Marco just raises his eyebrow sympathetically as Jean directs his attention to Connie for support instead. “Didn’t I bust my ass for this paper?”

Connie doesn’t begrudge Jean the confirmation and just nods. “Yeah, you kinda did.”

“I got an A!” Sasha whoops with a big grin, holding up her paper. “And I didn’t even study!”

“Of course she didn’t,” Connie mutters with a little smile before turning toward Sasha to give her a high-five. “Because you’re awesome!” he grins. He hesitates, but then leans over to give Sasha a shy peck on the cheek.

That’s all it takes for Jean to look back at Marco starts to make gagging motions while sticking out his tongue and crossing his eyes.

Marco rolls his eyes in reprimand at Jean, until looking over to see that Sasha has decided to return the gesture with a kiss on the mouth, and now they’re holding hands, ignoring everyone else.

He can’t help it as he turns back to Jean and makes a slight face, and then they both dissolve into silent hysterics.

“If you naive little shits think history is a joke, then you can march yourselves right out of this class,” Shadis barks as he finishes handing out papers and strides past them toward the front of the lecture hall. 

Jean turns to face the front and hunches down into his seat, and Marco sits up stock straight. He loses any amusement he may have had left when Shadis adds snidely, “You especially, Bodt. Considering you begged to be in this class, I’d expect more from you.”

Marco feels his cheeks heat, and everyone looks away awkwardly. No one wants to watch Marco get kicked down; he’s too well liked.

“Don’t hate on him just because I was messing around,” Jean pipes up unexpectedly, and Marco looks at him in surprise. 

Shadis glares with beady eyes, looking back and forth between both of them, but he relents. “Typical,” he growls, shooting Jean a withering look, before he finally turns away.

The rest of the class passes without incident, but Marco’s mood has become steadily darker by the time they’re dismissed.

He grabs his books with an exasperated sigh and leaves before everyone else, wanting to be alone with a cup of coffee before he starts his next exhaustive round of studying. He has a huge text to get through for a timed paper that actually counts for his major the next day, and he’s not exactly feeling optimistic.

The truth is that Marco takes criticism from his superiors harshly. There’s no reason for him not to be at the top of his class, and there’s too many expectations riding on him to fail simply because he didn’t apply himself.

The smell of coffee that greets him as he enters the college cafe is a welcome, comforting scent, and he finally relaxes a little as he hauls his messenger bag full of books onto one of the chairs at his customary two-person table in the corner.

Just his luck though—because it’s that kind of day—the book in question he’s mildly dreading opening once he’s settled down with his coffee, immediately threatens to fall out of his bag, tipping precariously. 

It’s like slow motion as it starts to fall to the floor, since it’s an obscure and hefty secondary source, and all Marco sees flash before his eyes is his bank account draining.

“Whoa!” A hand shoots out and catches it mid-drop, and then Marco finds Jean staring up at him with a nervous smile. “Uh, sorry, I didn’t mean to follow you or something...” He sets the heavy book on the table with a resounding thump, and raises an eyebrow. “Man, are you going to work out with that or something?”

Marco starts to laugh, a hand over his chest in relief. “Thanks,” he says gratefully, “that would’ve set me back at least $200.”

“No problem,” Jean replies wryly with a shrug. He looks at Marco hesitantly, but doesn’t speak right away, just standing there awkwardly.

And then, the trademark blush immediately flares and he looks at the floor when Marco smiles at him a little bit.

It’s selfish, but it always brightens Marco’s day when Jean looks bashful over his puppy love crush. 

“So, um,” Jean clears his throat awkwardly, “it’s not like I’m stalking you or something.” He immediately cringes, the blush becoming more pronounced. “Uh, it’s just that... you kind of ran out of there, and I wanted to say sorry?” 

It’s shocking how Jean can go from cocky to apologetic to endearing awkward within the span of half an hour.

“That’s okay,” Marco says with a sigh. “It’s not your fault. Shadis is kind of a dick, and I’m just under a lot of pressure because I have this huge paper due in a few days, and it’s for my actual major.” He points at the book. “You know, the dead weight over there.”

Jean laughs a little and shrugs. “Uh, actually,” he starts—and to Marco’s surprise, takes the liberty of setting his own bag down on the chair Marco was about to occupy on the other side of the table—“I was going to ask for your help. Like, as a frat brother?”

Marco immediately warms to that; helping people is where he excels.

“Sure!” he says brightly.

Jean grins eagerly, no longer nervous, and pushes the leather jacket he’s wearing down his arms. “That’s awesome,” he enthuses, “because I have this test coming up...” He rolls his eyes as he hangs the jacket on the back of the chair that is bag is also on. “What a load of shit. I mean,” he boasts, grinning in that way that’s simultaneously annoying, but also strangely endearing, “I could probably ace if it I _had_ to without studying.”

Marco snorts; Jean frowns.

It’s a pattern they’re fast falling into.

“All right, well, are you around tomorrow?” Marco asks.

“Oh,” Jean says, his face practically falling even though he tries to hide it, “uh, the test _is_ tomorrow.”

“Oh,” Marco echoes awkwardly. “Well, I mean...”

“I bet I could help you,” Jean ventures, eyeing Marco’s textbook. “What do you need to do? Memorize it?”

“Kind of,” Marco sighs, giving up. “I need to write a paper about it, but then we also have a timed essay.”

“Suck,” Jean declares, before planting himself in what is apparently now his designated seat. “But seriously, my mom used to help me study all the time. Why do you think I’m here on a partial scholarship?”

“Did your mom take the test for you, too?”

“Shut up, Marco.”

Two cups of coffee and a lot of grumbling from Marco later, he has to admit that Jean’s method of memorizing crucial passages, rather than trying to take it all in at once or even read the entire book, is surprisingly effective.

Marco sips his coffee carefully, taking a moment to study Jean.

He has the most ridiculous undercut, and he’s currently poring over Marco’s thick book, concentrating so hard that he’s actually biting his lip—one of the rare occasions that he’s totally unaware of himself. Marco guesses that he was most likely a pudgy kid with very pinchable cheeks, maybe followed by a gawky adolescence where his voice cracked a lot and he tried to act cool.

The hot ones always start out not-hot.

“Hey, Jean,” Marco says suddenly, rousing Jean from the intense concentration he’d been focusing on the index of Marco’s book, “what’s your major again?”

“Oh,” Jean replies, blinking distractedly as he focuses on Marco and closes the heavy book. “I’m business.”

Marco grins at him, pushing his empty coffee cup to the side and retrieving his massive book to make room for Jean’s much smaller textbook. He laughs at little at the response and gives a knowing snort. “All freshmen are ‘business majors,’” he snarks, “but do you know what you actually might want to major in for real?”

As he’s carefully finding a way to tuck the heavy book into his bag again without ripping it, he realizes that there’s been no answer.

When he looks up, Jean is just staring at him with a flat, almost unreadable expression.

And to Marco’s surprise, as he quickly recognizes the look on Jean’s face as disappointment, it cuts to his core more harshly than any disappointment a professor—or even his parents—have expressed in him. It’s a stare of absolute and utter contempt.

“You know what?” Jean says curtly, sliding his chair out as he moves to get up. “Never mind—I don’t need help.”

“Wait!” Marco exclaims, sliding his own chair out so quickly that it makes a raucous screech as he jumps up. A few people even look over at them in surprise to see the commotion.

“Whatever idealistic bullshit you have up your ass,” Jean remarks coldly as he moves to grab his jacket and book, “is pretty pathetic.” 

“Hey! Everyone tells me my major is ‘useless,’” Marco challenges.

“You just basically said my major isn’t real,” Jean retorts with a glower.

Marco’s about to argue, but then he shuts his mouth abruptly. Jean is right—he’s being an asshole.

“Sorry,” he says sincerely with a plaintive raise of his eyebrows.

Jean looks at him in surprise, and then hesitates.

“That was kind of...” Marco continues, trailing off.

“An asshole move?” Jean finishes for him, slowly putting his textbook back on the table and leaving his jacket hanging on the back of the chair.

“Yeah,” Marco admits, sighing. “But don’t leave?”

“Fine,” Jean grunts, retaking his seat and sliding his chair back in. He gives Marco a glare, which is then immediately followed by a sardonic smirk; Marco braces himself as Jean’s defense mechanism kicks in. “Besides, your major _is_ pretty useless. Why don’t you say what you really think? That you just want people kissing your ass with a degree in some intellectual jerk-off fantasy.”

They just stare at each other—Marco with wide eyes, and Jean with a challenging expression—until Marco starts to laugh. “Wow,” is all he replies. “That was... you _should_ be a literature major, or at least creative writing.”

“I’m a realist,” Jean retorts, crossing his arms and ignoring Marco’s response. “At least I admit that I want to make money and afford a sweet place to live.”

“Look, I said I’m sorry,” Marco repeats, leveling Jean with a sincere look. “I really mean it. That was shitty of me.”

Jean frowns mildly at him, the smirk fading, and there’s that disappointment again—that thing that makes Marco almost ache.

“Well,” Jean says grudgingly, “what’s so great about your snooty major anyway, if you don’t want people to suck up to you?”

“I’d actually like to serve society somehow,” Marco replies earnestly, straightening his posture and meeting Jean’s eyes. “The arts can be totally life changing, you know.”

Jean snorts; Marco frowns.

“Well, I really do want to go into business,” Jean finally says, taking a sip of his cappuccino. “I wasn’t kidding when I said I had a scholarship.”

Marco studies him for a moment, and then he nods. “Well, there’s nothing wrong with that. I shouldn’t have said that—it was stuck up.”

“And I’m also pretty smart.”

Marco huffs, not knowing what else he can say to win Jean’s approval again. “I know! You just showed me a better way to study for my own test than I’ve been able to figure out in two years!”

Jean grins at him a little, and this time, it’s genuine; all Marco had to do was fold.

“Your coffee’s gone,” Jean points out in an amused voice after a moment.

Marco grumbles under his breath.

“Want another one?”

Before he can reply, his mouth is hanging open as Jean magically whisks away his empty cup. Marco turns to see Jean getting in line. 

Once Jean’s distracted by the cashier, Marco idly eyes Jean’s bag where a thicker book is half hanging out. He grabs it since he figures that’s the one that Jean’s going to be studying from, and at the same time, a sketchpad falls out.

Marco’s eyes widen as he darts a look back at Jean, but apparently, he’s arguing with the cashier over something.

Well, since it’s already out...

He sets the textbook on the table, checks on Jean’s position again, and then flips open the sketchpad quickly.

His eyes widen immediately, though, as he’s faced with a whole cast of characters and places he knows well—nature studies (a sketch of the woods behind the house), figure drawings (Connie asleep and drooling on the couch), and even some portraits... 

Marco starts to blush intensely as he sees his own face, grinning and animatedly talking about something, freckles abound.

He quickly shoves the sketchbook back into Jean’s bag, opens the textbook to a random page, and tries to look nonchalant as Jean’s voice interrupts the moment.

“I totally got ripped off,” he growls, setting Marco’s coffee down on the table. “It says right there,” he declares, jabbing his finger in annoyance toward the handwritten welcome sign at the entrance, “you get a free refill. I mean, they robbed you of a fucking muffin since that’s what I was going to get you with the money I saved from your free coffee.” A paper bag suddenly materializes on the table, despite Jean’s complaining. “This muffin is made of indignity, so enjoy it.”

Marco starts to laugh, immediately forgetting about his semi-intentional indiscretion, and fishes out the muffin. It’s a corn muffin—fresh, from the looks of it—wrapped in wax paper, and Marco’s mouth practically waters as he breaks a piece off the top and pops it into his mouth.

Jean just stares at him, and the eager look he’s wearing is uncannily reminiscent of his reaction to when Marco’s not wearing a shirt.

“You want some?” Marco grins.

The muffin debacle ends up turning into an extended study break, and Marco’s feeling much happier than he was an hour ago when he asks Jean curiously, “So, what do you want to do with a business degree?”

Jean eyes him cautiously, but apparently, Marco’s outward sincerity passes muster. “I don’t know,” he finally shrugs. “Work in some corporate hellhole? I’m okay with that, as long as the money’s good.” 

“That’ll get old really fast if it’s really a hellhole,” Marco informs him, raising an eyebrow. “But you know what you should do?”

Jean rolls his eyes. “Give Shakespeare’s corpse a blowjob?”

“You’re gross.”

“Says the kid with muffin bits on his chin.”

Marco self-consciously grabs a napkin, narrowing his eyes at Jean playfully, who simply looks pleased with himself. “Well, you should form your own company,” Marco says after a moment, “be your own boss.”

That actually seems to pique Jean’s interest, and he looks thoughtful. “I never thought of that,” he admits after a moment.

“I mean, seriously,” Marco continues, taking a long sip of his coffee, “I think you’d make a great leader. You understand what it’s like to work hard.”

Jean blinks at him with wide eyes—even he will admit he’s not the master of social interaction—but he doesn’t argue.

“I’ll think about it,” he replies nonchalantly after a moment, but Marco can tell the idea’s been implanted firmly into his head.

“So, anyway,” Marco says, sliding his chair around to open Jean’s textbook, “about this class you have. I had this same professor two semesters ago, and she literally gets all her questions from one book...”

Marco does very well on his written exam, and he leaves a bran muffin wrapped in brown paper and a note on Jean’s bed.

= = = 

Generally speaking, Marco thrives on being part of a frat. There’s always someone to hang out with, they only let in genuinely decent people, and there really is a sense of brotherhood... not to mention, the parties.

However, that being said, there are parts of college life that he can’t stand and that get increasingly old as time goes on.

One of these things is when people steal his coffee.

It’s an inevitable outcome when so many people live in a house together, and especially when there’s only one industrial-size coffee maker in the kitchen that everyone shares. While Marco doesn’t mind sharing his gourmet blends that his parents send him special from Jinae, the one thing that makes Marco instantly cranky is finding that all of his coffee gone; especially in desperate times, such as during finals.

He’s sitting in his bedroom, two textbooks open on his bed, when there’s a knock at the door.

“Hey, Marco!” comes Thomas’s voice. 

“Come in!” Marco calls tiredly, and the door cracks open.

“Hey, man, isn’t it your birthday?” Thomas’s blond head pops in and he cranes his neck around the door. Everyone knows not to bother Marco during finals, even the freshmen.

“Yeah,” Marco replies, giving a tired smile and closing his laptop where he’s sitting at the small desk. “But I’ve got too much studying to do. Hey, do you know if there’s any coffee left downstairs?”

“Uh,” Thomas replies, looking guilty, “... no?”

Marco chews his lip as the annoyance rises, but he forces himself not to snap. “Can someone at least go _get_ me a cup from the cafeteria? I really don’t have time.”

“Sure!” Thomas replies brightly, straightening as he opens the door a little more. “I’ll go!”

Marco almost groans as then Connie’s head pops in, who is undoubtedly the culprit given the look on his face. “I’m really sorry, Marco!” he says, sounding genuinely apologetic. “I pulled an all nighter and—”

“Bullshit,” comes Jean’s dismissive voice. “You were up all night playing Grand Theft Auto.”

Connie’s face reddens, and from the sound of the startled “oof,” he elbows Jean back away from the door.

“Guys,” Marco says tiredly, pinching the bridge of his nose, “my room isn’t the common area. Unless you want to exchange brains and take my place for the history final with Shadis tomorrow, clear out.”

Within seconds, Thomas is probably already half way on his way to the cafeteria the way he turns on his heel and Connie has disappeared down the hallway.

But to Marco’s surprise, he realizes Jean is still standing there, lingering in the doorway.

“So, uh,” he says awkwardly, taking a few hesitant steps into Marco’s bedroom, “is it really your birthday?”

Marco flops back on the bed and groans, throwing his arm to the side and rolling on top of a textbook. “Yes,” he confirms woefully. “And all I got was a lousy coffee thief.”

Jean looks thoughtful for a moment, but then he takes a few more bold steps into Marco’s room. “Do you want help studying?”

“No,” Marco pouts, feeling grumpy and tired.

“You like you’re eleven when you make that face.”

“It’s the freckles,” Marco retorts.

“Is this about coffee?” Jean questions, an incredulous look on his face.

Marco scowls at him, feeling grumpy. “I have one rule here—and that rule is leave Marco’s special Jinae-blend coffee alone. I need my coffee, or else I’ll fail all my classes!” His eyes widen as he stares at Jean, feeling a little unhinged now that he’s been let go to rant. “Do you know what I’m like without caffeine?” he demands, his voice growing shrill.

“Uh, now I do,” Jean retorts, cocking his head to the side, though he looks more fascinated than intimidated.

“I’m back!” Thomas calls, appearing behind Jean’s shoulder with a triumphant expression, but panting.

“Did you run here?” Jean asks in disbelief, turning slightly to stare at Thomas.

Thomas’s cheeks are bright red where he’s probably just sprinted from campus and back—granted, a short walk—and he looks desperate to please Marco.

“Oh god, thank you,” Marco says gratefully, standing to cross the room in two steps with newfound energy to seize the coffee.

“So, you’re really not going to take a break to come have a beer?” Thomas asks incredulously after a moment.

Marco’s already settled down at his desk again, a pen in one hand and the coffee in the other, as he squints at a textbook.

“Maybe after finals,” he replies absentmindedly, bending forward to highlight an important passage.

“C’mon, Thomas,” Jean says, “Professor Boring here needs to memorize all of Shakespeare’s sonnets.”

“Only three of them!” Marco sings as both Jean and Thomas leave the room, shutting the door behind them.

The entire week is chock full of finals, and Marco never actually finds the time to buy fresh coffee, especially since he does most of his studying in the campus cafe when it’s open.

He’s made it through mostly unscathed, and there’s only one final left.

It’s a Thursday night, and he’s looking forward to the last day of finals—they’ve got a party planned, since finals also happen to fall at the same time of the year as Marco’s birthday. It’s almost the end of the semester, and so far, so good.

Thankfully, he’s relatively sure he’s got the material down. Nevertheless, the next day is the South Asian Literature final, and the professor is tough, so he decides to spend some more time going over it.

As the night wears on, Marco finally gives into his own fatigue by three in the morning, figuring that with four hours of sleep under his belt and a few extra minutes to grab a cup of coffee from the cafe on his way to class will be enough to ace the exam.

As soon as Marco opens his eyes, he knows he’s late. The light is far too bright for seven a.m., and he nearly yelps when he looks at the clock and sees it’s already nine.”

His final is in forty-five minutes, and he hasn’t even showered.

“Fuck!” he hisses, sitting up abruptly in bed and looking around wildly.

There’s a wild scramble to change his clothes so he doesn’t look like he spent the night in an alley, and he even foregoes showering. Somewhere, he ends up with a pair of ripped jeans, a t-shirt that he realizes he’s wearing backwards, and a comb in his hand as he bolts down the stairs, remembering to grab his bag in the process.

But the most important part—the reason he skipped showering, and is now wearing his t-shirt the wrong way—is to make sure he gets the most important meal of the day.

“No,” he breathes, staring desperately into the cupboard where his coffee is missing. “No!” he cries, shaking his fist in the air.

There’s no way he can face this final without caffeine, and he doesn’t have time to stop by the cafe.

He slumps to his knees in the middle of the kitchen, groaning as the last week of stress and sleepless nights come to attack him, and he almost feels like he wants to cry when a familiar voice interrupts his dramatic breakdown.

“ _What_ are you doing?”

“There’s no coffee,” Marco whimpers, pointing up at the open cupboard pitifully, “and my stupid final is in twenty minutes.” He stands abruptly, throwing his hands up and looking at Jean with what he knows is a crazed expression. “I give up!” he declares. “I’m dropping out of college! This is it! Goodbye!”

Jean is in the midst of brushing his teeth and still looking bleary-eyed as he stares at Marco, still moving the toothbrush, before finally talking around it. “You fweakang outh over coafee?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.

“Yes!” Marco cries in a broken voice.

“Uh my gawdth,” Jean mutters around the toothbrush, rolling his eyes and holding his hand out to Marco as he pulls it out of his mouth. “C’mon.”

“I can’t!”

“Five minutes?” he urges, letting his waiting hand hover there.

“For what?” Marco asks suspiciously.

Jean makes an exasperated sound and finally walks over to grab Marco’s shirt sleeve, tugging him to stand and then hauling him back up the stairs.

He swings the door open to his and Connie’s room, and as Marco is about to pull away and break into a sprint for a mad cafe dash, Jean just points.

“Happy birthday,” he says simply, before turning back around and heading toward the bathroom to finish brushing his teeth.

Marco’s mouth drops open as he sees what’s sitting on Jean’s desk.

It’s a coffee maker—a small, personal four cup version—with a bag of coffee sitting next to it along with a pack of filters. There’s even a note, and Marco strides over with wide eyes to look at it, before ripping open the envelope.

On a small, folded piece of spiral notebook paper, Jean’s printed in surprisingly neat handwriting:

_Don’t forget me in your will when you die of caffeine poisoning._

_Happy Birthday—Jean_

Marco just stares at the note in disbelief, and then he hears footsteps that stop at the doorway as Jean stands there.

“Uh, the thing about caffeine poisoning is a joke,” he starts uncertainly, sounding unsure of how to read Marco’s reaction.

“Wow,” Marco murmurs, spinning to stare at Jean with wide eyes. “This is the nicest present anyone’s ever given me.”

“Don’t just stand there!” Jean mumbles, looking embarrassed at Marco’s sentimentality. “Go use the damn thing so you don’t miss your final. All you have to do is turn it on.”

Jean actually _squeaks_ when Marco launches himself forward and wraps Jean in a tight hug, patting his back in a weirdly fraternal yet familiar gesture.

His brain immediately takes note of how warm Jean is, how good he smells, and how the little noise he makes when Marco tightens his grip is mind-bogglingly hot.

_Goddamn it, not right now._

“Thanks, Jean,” Marco says brightly, releasing him and darting away to grab the coffee. “You saved my life!”

Jean is still standing there with a blush slowly creeping up his neck, struggling to speak as Marco rushes past. But he does hear the strained, “No problem,” as he away to plug in the coffee maker.

He aces the final, and when he writes Jean a thank you note on a piece of fancy stationery and slips it under his door, he can’t help the warm feeling that blooms in him when he notices the top of it sticking out of Jean’s sketchbook one day.

= = =

Marco isn’t a wild party person. He likes socializing and having a good time with his friends, but overall, he’s not the type who’s going to stay out until all hours of the morning singing bad 80s songs and drinking shitty beer. 

However, end of semester parties that also happen to coincide with his birthday are ones he never misses... that is, unless a last minute extra credit paper for a particularly hard class that that will ensure an A happens to get in the way—which it has.

The bass of the music is so loud, it seems like every sentence he reads about the repercussions of Dickensian literature on 19th century British society has a headache-inducing soundtrack to go with it. It doesn’t help that he already had a headache to begin with—drinking four cups of coffee and managing to fit in only four hours of sleep in two days will do that to a person.

On top of that, there’s some porn-worthy moaning coming from a few doors down, where Franz, an opera major, and his very shy and sweet girlfriend, Hannah, also an opera major, are apparently engaged in a very off-key rehearsal of “Faust.” Or, in other words, Hannah’s a screamer and Franz has a wider range of octaves than anyone really knew.

Marco lets out a frustrated sigh and shoves his face into his pillow, groaning in agony. The earplugs he’s donned aren’t doing much to block out all the sound, and he keeps shoving them so hard into his ears that it’s becoming a genuine worry that he might not be able to get them back out.

Nothing is helping, though, and he finally closes his heavy textbook with a resounding thump.

This sucks.

The semester’s long hours and intense schedule have left him more exhausted than even previous ones, but thankfully, the frat has provided an equally supportive group of friends. 

Between Connie rooting for him to finish a paper due the next morning and Jean replenishing his coffee supply, he’s made pretty good friends amongst the freshman pledges. Once Jean got over his awkwardness, too, he’d even taken a few minor shots at Marco about his dutiful study habits and altruistic ideals about what he wanted to do with his major. Jean’s schtick of “just got out of high school and have a big crush” has quickly turned into “got a clue and made a friend,” a turn of events with which Marco is immensely pleased.

All of that being said, he needs a break and he knows it. In fact, he’s even getting close to blowing off the extra credit assignment altogether and cutting loose. Nothing sounds better right now than a few drinks, food, and then—if he’s really being honest about his wishes—maybe some sex, depending on who’s at the party. He hasn’t gotten laid in six months.

His thoughts immediately flit to Jean, and he _immediately_ tamps down the notion in his head. No, no, no. Jean is still a freshman, he’s still impressionable, he’s still growing into himself, and...

The truth is, Marco kind of really likes him. A lot.

But the puppy love crush seems to have dissipated, considering Jean could barely say two words to Marco at the beginning of the semester without stammering, and now he’ll crack jokes about Marco being “descended from a dead saint who got himself killed being too nice or something.” With that dumb smile and annoying expression that Marco has grown to absolutely adore.

Such a pain in the ass. Such a good friend. And such a—

(Marco groans at himself in disgust, but he can’t stop himself from finishing his train of thought.)

—and such a smoking fine piece of ass it shouldn’t even be allowed.

As if on cue, there’s a sharp knock at the door that startles him out of his thoughts abruptly.

“Come in!” he calls, relieved to be forced to focus on something else.

Connie pokes his head in timidly, craning his neck to look at Marco hesitantly, then an incredulous look spreads over his face. “Are you still working on that paper?”

“Ugh,” Marco swoons dramatically, throwing himself onto his back and putting a hand over his face. “If I study any more, my brain is going to start oozing out of my nose.”

Connie laughs as he opens the door all the way, but then shuts it just as fast as the strains of Franz and Hannah’s dramatic opera of screams drifts into the room even above the music.

“Never woulda figured her for a screamer, huh?” Connie asks in complete earnestness, comedically rubbing the back of his head as if totally baffled.

“Eh, it’s always the quiet ones,” Marco retorts with a snort. “Anyway, what’s up?”

“Oh,” Connie replies, refocusing his attention on Marco, “I figured you might need a break.” He smiles a little with a shrug, and his eyes dart to the floor where Marco’s textbook has been soundly abandoned. “Guess I was right.”

Marco laughs weakly with a nod and sits up on the bed, swinging his legs over it. He’s been wearing the same jeans for two days, but at least he’d showered that morning.

“Yeah, you can say that again,” he mumbles, rubbing his eyes. “So, how’s the party? Should I come down?”

“Yeah, it’s pretty fun. No one’s puked yet,” Connie declares. “But now Sasha’s roommate Ymir is drunkenly giving her a speech about how ‘relationships aren’t to be rushed into.’” He makes a disgruntled sound in the back of his throat. “You know, when I’m standing right there.”

Marco laughs as he stands up, yawning widely and stretching his arms above his head. “I’ve met Ymir. I think she’s just kind of like that.”

“Yeah,” Connie agrees, rolling his eyes. “But whatever. Sasha likes her a lot, so I just grin and bear it.”

“Good boyfriend,” Marco retorts, grinning a little at Connie.

“Yeah, seriously,” Connie nods with a laugh. “Although Sasha has to see Jean on a regular basis, so you know... that’s like a toll already paid.” He snorts and crosses his arms with a roll of his eyes. Everyone knows that Jean and Connie have reached a tenuous peace that’s still slowly evolving into something resembling friendship. They still take jabs at each other regularly, but it’s never with real malice.

“Is Jean down there?” Marco asks, his interest piqued. He snorts and raises and eyebrow. “Already drunk, by any chance?”

“Uh, actually,” Connie says, his expression becoming serious, “he’s just standing in the corner, being a serious downer.”

Marco raises his eyebrows in surprise, cocking his head to the side. “Is he okay?”

“I mean, I guess so,” Connie replies thoughtfully. “It’s not like he’s upset... he’s just sort of being... quiet.”

“ _Quiet?_ ” Marco asks in disbelief. “Something must be wrong.”

“Well, come down and ask him. I don’t even know how to talk to Jean when he’s not being an asshole.”

Marco laughs and runs a hand through his hair, trying to get it into some semblance of order. Out of all of them, he may be the _only_ one who knows how to talk to Jean in any other mode except “asshole.”

“I don’t speak sad-Jean,” Connie quips, but he looks genuinely concerned. “Seriously, though, maybe he needs someone to talk to or something.” He shakes his head with a skeptical expression. “And there’s no way he’s going to tell me anything.”

“Okay,” Marco agrees. “Let me make myself presentable and I’ll come down.”

It doesn’t take much to get ready to show up to a half-over frat party in his own house during the last week of the semester where most people are probably already drunk and it’s nearly midnight.

Nevertheless, Marco brushes his teeth, splashes some water on his face, pulls on a pair of fresh jeans and a fitted albeit comfortable t-shirt (might as well look somewhat decent on the off-chance he actually does have the opportunity to get laid), and makes his way down the stairs.

The scene is very _college_. There’s a circle of people sitting on the floor, singing along drunkenly to whatever song that’s playing, a few couples making out against the wall, a spillage into the front yard of people smoking and talking, and a few empty kegs in the kitchen along with an impressive collection of empty red Solo cups discarded on the floor.

He doesn’t see Connie or Jean immediately, and sidesteps the chorus of badly mangled lyrics being belted by Drunk Glee Club to make a beeline for the only keg that’s still standing and full. The kitchen is oddly quiet, although Marco figures it’s because the beer is nearly gone, and he won’t be surprised to find that a keg has been relocated to the front lawn.

Just as he’s filling a cup, he hears a shout of, “PIZZA’S HERE!” as the doorbell rings. He immediately ducks toward the backdoor to escape the mob that’s undoubtedly about to descend on the kitchen.

There’s only a few people out in the back on the wraparound porch, since the house faces a dense wood, being that the campus is actually relatively large and in the middle of nowhere. The darkness on this side of the house always freaks everyone out, and it’s one of Marco’s favorite places to escape if he needs a break from the constant noise of the frat house.

Right now, there are a few people smoking and some stragglers from the party, but mostly it’s calm.

“Hey,” comes a quiet voice, and Marco almost jumps as he turns sharply.

“Jean?” he asks in surprise, his eyes widening.

Jean gives a weak wave and wan smile from where he’s sitting on the steps that lead out into the dark back lawn, drinking a half-full beer.

Marco approaches hesitantly, taking a big sip of his own beer as he studies the slump of Jean’s shoulders. Something is definitely up.

“Wanna sit down?” Jean offers, scooching over to make room on the wooden steps.

“Sure,” Marc replies, taking a seat next to Jean. He’s suddenly very aware of his own thigh touching Jean’s, but surprisingly, Jean doesn’t even notice. “What’s wrong?” Marco asks, deciding to be blunt. He’s too tired for subtlety.

Jean’s head turns sharply as he meets Marco’s eyes, and he frowns. “What makes you think something’s wrong?”

Marco just stares at him with a flat expression, and Jean immediately folds.

“I just found out I fucked up which credits I had to take this year,” he mumbles, staring down at the steps now and not meeting Marco’s eyes, his shoulders hunched in defensively. “So now, I’m stuck here for the spring _and_ summer semester. Sucks.”

Marco’s about to inform Jean that staying for the summer semester isn’t actually that bad, when he continues, “And... my mom and I were supposed to take this dumb trip we do every year to visit my aunt.” He sighs. “She’s totally pissed I can’t go.”

Marco already knows that when Jean says “totally pissed,” he really means probably heartbroken; and when he says “dumb” he probably means “the awesome thing I’ve been looking forward to.”

“Oh man, that sucks,” Marco replies sympathetically. “I’m sorry, Jean.”

“It’s just...” Jean starts softly, and he hazards a look at Marco that’s so vulnerable, it makes Marco’s breath catch, “I kind of, um... miss her. And stuff.”

Marco nods encouragingly. “Yeah, I totally understand. You know I have a really big family, but I’ve hardly gotten to see them at all since I went away to college.” He gives a sad little smile and pats Jean on the shoulder in a—semi-ironically, given his prior thoughts—fraternal gesture. “We’re pretty close, too.”

“Well, it’s just me and my mom, so you know...” Jean adds with a little shrug, trailing off. “I know she can be a little overprotective, but I get why.” He adds a humorless snort. “In fact, being away from home, I see how much shit I gave her when I was a teenager. Gotta make it up eventually.”

“Those care packages are awesome,” Marco prompts, poking Jean in his arm playfully. “You want to trade? Your mom can adopt me and I’ll eat your special, fancy cereal, and then you can hang out with my seven sisters for the rest of your life. It’ll be great.”

Jean laughs again, this time louder and with more genuine humor, and he rolls his eyes. “You wish.”

“Yeah, I kinda do,” Marco grins. “But not really.” He becomes a little more serious as he adds, “Honestly, we’re pretty close, and they depended on me a lot.”

“Because you’re the only guy to protect them?” Jean guesses with interest. It’s obvious he’s an only child.

Marco lets out a bark of laughter and throws his hands up. “Yeah, right! Margit—the oldest one—is the one everyone is afraid of.” He smiles fondly, losing himself in memory. “One time, when we were in primary school, some kid mercilessly made fun of our freckles.”

“Let me guess,” Jean interrupts in a deadpan voice, “you _all_ have freckles.”

“Oh, yeah,” Marco laughs. “Pod people. Anyway, I wasn’t always tall. In fact, when I was little, I was pretty short. But Margit,” he says, raising an eyebrow, “she was tall even then. So, this kid one day had the gall to actually heave a clump of mud at me on the playground.”

Jean’s eyes widen and he looks genuinely distraught. “Wow, that pretty fucked up, even for a kid.”

Marco nods. “Tell me about it. I don’t even know where that kid ended up. But this clod of wet dirt hits me right in the face, and I start crying.” He shakes his head with a little smile, and then starts to laugh when he sees the horrified expression on Jean’s face. “But then,” he adds, turning his body to face Jean more directly and putting one hand up in the air animatedly, “Margit marches over, _picks the kid up_ by the shirt collar, and then held him there until he apologized.”

He’s laughing so hard now he’s near tears, and he realizes Jean’s laughing, too. Somehow, the sound makes him feel a disconcerting type of warmth that has nothing to do with finding Jean appealing sans shirt.

“I was kind of loner,” Jean says when he regains his breath, still laughing a little. “That’s a surprise, huh?”

Marco looks up with wide eyes, and then realizes to his shock that Jean has actually managed to gather enough self-awareness to be self-deprecating.

He’s come a long way since the beginning of the semester.

“Yeah, Jean,” Marco replies distractedly, his attention still riveted by the smile on Jean’s mouth, “that’s a shock.”

The smile gets wider and turns into an outright grin as Jean smacks Marco on the arm. “You’re such a jerk, Mar— _mph_ —” 

_No, no, no. This is a bad idea. The worst idea in the history of bad ideas._

Even as the thoughts hit Marco—one after the other—he doesn’t break the kiss, moving his mouth against Jean’s feverishly. Jean immediately draws closer and wraps a hand around Marco’s upper arm.

“Fuck,” Jean breathes as the kiss breaks, their foreheads pressed together as he tries to catch his breath. He can’t seem to conjure any other words, though, so Marco does it for him.

“I shouldn’t have...” Marco says, pulling away abruptly, shaking his head. “I’m really sorry. That was...”

Jean stares at him in disbelief, and then an angry look crosses his face.

“You’re seriously going to kiss me and then go back on it?” he demands, pointing at Marco. “That’s so shitty.”

“It’s _so_ shitty!” Marco agrees in a high pitched voice. “But I—”

Now he’s the one who swallows his words as Jean attacks his lips in return. This time, though, instead of using aggression to defend himself, Jean pours all of his characteristic vitriol and passion into the kiss until Marco is rendered practically senseless.

He’s a really good kisser.

When they break apart, though, he pushes Marco away abruptly and jumps up, arms crossed over his chest in that defensive posture Marco knows so well.

He just stands there for a minute, glaring down at Marco with a raw expression, until quietly speaking. “Are you saying you shouldn’t have because of some dumb rule,” Jean asks, “or because you don’t want to?”

The truth is there’s really no rule against it, and Marco honestly can’t come up with any other reason of why this is a bad idea than his own reservations.

“Um, none of the above?” Marco answers lamely with a pathetic little smile and cringe. The weight of Jean’s glare is too much after a moment, and he looks down sheepishly to study his knees.

There’s a short silence that grows so oppressive and awkward that Marco can barely stand it. The sounds of the party are distant, and there’s no one around them anymore; everyone’s migrated to the front where the beer is.

Jean’s voice cuts through the heavy silence after a moment. “Are you fucking with me for fun?” 

Marco’s head jerks up and his eyes widen; to his horror, Jean also appears to be serious.

He rises to his feet quickly and looks Jean right in the eye—even though he has to look down slightly—and replies, “Of course not.”

Jean does not look appeased. “Yes, you are,” he insists, crossing his arms and taking a step back. 

“I wouldn’t do that!” Marco exclaims, feeling that sense of disappointment he despises start to seep through him.

“Well, what the hell would you call kissing me and then apologizing for it?” Jean demands, his voice trembling with anger and something else now. 

Fair point.

“Um,” Marco blurts out gracelessly, “well...”

Jean scowls and raises a judgmental eyebrow at him, but Marco can see the hurt, there, too.

“Okay!” he admits, throwing his hands up and feeling cornered. “That was messed up, and I’m sorry.” 

“Are you sorry for kissing me?” Jean replies immediately, his voice quiet. Marco blinks in surprise, not expecting the small, vulnerable sound of Jean’s voice or the earnest question.

“No,” he murmurs, and figuring it’s now or never, he gets close again. Jean blinks at him in surprise, as if unsure of how to respond, and Marco forces himself not to think as he asks, “Are you sorry for kissing me back?”

“No,” Jean echoes softly.

Marco studies Jean’s face—well-kissed lips and cautious eyes—and _fuck it._

“Do you want to go upstairs?”

Jean’s eyes widen, and for the first time, a blush immediately flushes his cheeks; he looks taken off guard, but also eager, trying so hard to hide his feelings and failing miserably.

“Okay,” he croaks, looking a little faint.

Now that it’s all out in the open, Marco lets his feelings run amok. He honestly can’t remember ever wanting another person so much in his life. He’s never met anyone like Jean—someone so unsure of themselves, yet with emotions so strong that other people are forced to become accountable for their own actions. 

Marco doesn’t need to be told twice, seizing the red cup from out of Jean’s limp hand to set it aside and lacing their fingers together as he pulls him back inside, through the throngs of people eating pizza, past the drunk chorus line, up the stairs and down the hallway away from the encore of “Faust,” until finally reaching his room and shutting the door soundly behind them.

Then they just stare at each other in the dark room, as if unsure what to do, so Marco decides to wait and let Jean decide where this is going.

He turns away to give Jean some breathing room, fumbling around to turn on his dim bedside lamp.

When Marco turns back around to see what Jean’s verdict is, he’s still standing there in the doorway, looking back and forth nervously between Marco and the bed, biting his lip absentmindedly.

Deciding to throw him a bone, Marco gathers his wits and calms the butterflies in his stomach. Then, he offers a little smile and holds out his hand, palm up, in a nonthreatening gesture.

Jean laughs nervously, before shoving both hands into his pockets and rocking back and forth on his feet. He looks up hesitantly at Marco before speaking. “Guess it’s pretty obvious, that I... uh...” He clears his throat awkwardly and shrugs, although it’s almost as if he’s talking to himself at this point.

Marco raises an eyebrow, unspeaking, waiting for Jean to finish. When he doesn’t, though, Marco decides to go easy on him and replies, “What’s pretty obvious?”

He’s enjoyed Jean’s attention—whether it’s waxed or waned—for an entire semester now. Marco knows it’s a little selfish, but the truth is that no one’s ever shown this much interest in him before. All things considered, it’s actually somewhat fascinating. Nevertheless, he doesn’t want to take it _too_ far—endearing as it’s been, he doesn’t intend to torture Jean by hiding the fact that his feelings are requited—and he just shrugs, prompting Jean to let it go. 

To his surprise, though, Jean gives a self-deprecating snort and rolls his eyes. “You know _what_. I’ve had a raging fucking crush on you since the beginning of this semester, like I’m in junior high or something.”

“Okay,” Marco concedes, laughing a little, “it’s obvious.” He offers a warm smile to make sure Jean knows that Marco is laughing with him, and not _at_ him.

That earns a more genuine smile out of Jean in return, and he finally relaxes somewhat, giving Marco’s outstretched hand another interested look.

Marco tries not to let the way his heart starts to beat a little faster betray his excitement as Jean takes a few cautious steps forward, tilting his head to the side and studying Marco’s face intently, as if searching for deceit.

And it’s at that moment that Marco realizes exactly how much time he’s spent luring in this maddeningly smug, unwittingly gorgeous, often frustrating, and hair trigger emotional _force_ of a person that is Jean Kirschstein to be his friend.

Maybe Jean’s not the only one who should be blushing and stammering in embarrassment.

“If it’s not obvious,” Marco adds, finally taking the initiative to close the distance between them and grasp Jean’s hand, “I like you, too.”

Jean’s fingers are tense, but after a moment, he finally laces them with Marco’s and makes a soft noise. Marco can tell Jean’s probably going to be sensitive—probably make the best noises in bed, depending on how far this goes—and he can barely contain his eagerness. 

“Um,” Jean acknowledges with a shy nod, “okay.”

Jean’s breath hitches as Marco pulls him forward, and then presses up against him, pulling Jean’s arm around his waist. “Do you want to kiss me again?” he whispers into Jean’s ear, nuzzling his cheek against Jean’s affectionately. 

“Y-yeah,” Jean whispers back.

This time, it’s Marco’s turn to kiss Jean, but it’s soft and slow; Marco’s in control, and he loves the way that Jean trembles slightly as their lips move together.

He walks Jean over toward the bed as they kiss, until they break apart again with a gasp, and to Marco’s surprise, Jean immediately sits down on the edge of the bed, looking up at him with swollen lips and wide eyes.

He’s working on total instinct now, his brain clouded in a fog of lust and affection, as he follows Jean to the bed and pushes him slowly onto his back, still kissing.

Jean jumps a little as he lies back and the bed squeaks, and Marco pulls away to smile, forcing himself to slow down. To his relief, though, Jean returns the smile shyly as he moves to toe off his shoes and let them to drop to the floor.

And then he’s laid out on Marco’s bed, looking for all the world like he’s not sure if he’s about to be executed or win the lottery.

Marco lies down on his side next to Jean, rubbing his foot against Jean’s shin. “Relax,” he instructs softly, reaching out to touch Jean’s neck with careful fingers. “Just tell me if you want to stop.”

Jean gives a harsh nod, eyes screwed shut tightly, but he whispers, “I don’t want to stop.”

Marco nods, leaning on his elbow to hover over Jean and say into his ear, “Okay.”

Jean breathes in sharply when the bed squeaks again as Marco moves to lean over and press his lips against Jean’s jaw, trailing a line of soft, unhurried kisses until reaching Jean’s neck, and then keeps going, kissing down to his throat and collarbones.

The edge of his t-shirt is very soft, and Marco kisses him there, too, eager to pull the fabric away to get at the hollow of his throat. But he decides to go slow, not wanting to spook Jean since he’s obviously extremely nervous.

In fact, Marco can’t remember the last time he had an experience this intense, save the first time he ever kissed a boy in junior high, and subsequently realized why kissing had always seemed so boring up until that point.

Marco settles on his side again, and then slides his hand down to Jean’s hip, prompting him to follow suit.

Jean obeys and rolls onto his side to face Marco, but when Marco leans forward to kiss him on the lips again, Jean’s fingers clamp down on his upper arm in a death grip. His entire body is as stiff as a board, as if he’s simply trying to tolerate what’s happening to him.

Marco pulls away immediately to figure out what’s wrong, but Jean’s blushing and won’t meet his eyes.

“Do you not like what I’m doing?” Marco asks, studying him intently, feeling confused. He’s always welcomed direction, but that doesn’t seem to be the problem; he just has no idea what the problem is, or if there is a problem at all.

“I...” Jean stammers, seemingly frozen in place.

“Am I making you uncomfortable?” Marco continues in grave concern, immediately moving away to give Jean space.

“No!” Jean bites out, his grip tightening even more so Marco can’t leave.

“Ow.”

Jean jerks his hand back and blurts out defensively, “I’ve just never done this before!” He immediately snaps his mouth shut and looks mortified, frozen in place.

Oh.

Marco nods in understanding, trying to reassure Jean with a nonjudgmental look. “With a guy?” he guesses, smiling gently. “That’s okay. If you’re into it, let’s just go slow and figure it out together.”

“No,” Jean corrects quietly, “I mean... um... ever.” He motions back and forth between them awkwardly.

Marco is puzzled for a split second, before his eyes widen, and he blurts out, “ _Oh._ ”

He knows it’s the wrong response when Jean’s expression immediately closes, his jaw sets, and he sits up quickly. “Whatever,” he grits out, obviously trying to sound indifferent. “It’s not a big deal, so just forget it.”

Marco’s on the brink of correcting Jean’s assumption that his response was out of condescension, but then Jean’s words hit him square in the chest like a lead weight.

“That’s how you feel about this?” he asks, unable to hide the hurt in his voice as he slowly sits up, too, motioning back and forth between them. “About us?” He immediately feels embarrassed that the “us” slips out—as if “they” are even a thing. “You’re right, then,” he concludes softly, turning away to get off the bed. “Just forget it.”

“Wait!” Jean interjects sharply, grabbing Marco’s arm again. “You didn’t even ask me how I feel.”

That stops Marco, and he turns to study Jean cautiously.

“All right,” he nods patiently, staring Jean straight in the eye. “I’m asking, then: how do you feel?”

Jean drops his eyes and shakes his head, scowling. For a moment, he doesn’t speak, but then he relaxes his jaw, and some of the tension seems to leave his body. It’s almost painful how hard he’s thinking, as if trying to decide whether to let Marco in, or continue his retreat.

He takes a deep breath, and then says in a quiet, even voice, “Yes, I’m inexperienced—as in I’m a virgin. No, I don’t care that you’re a guy. Yes, I know this is lame and you probably hook up with people all the time.” Jean sighs miserably, simply sounding defeated now. “And... this ‘not being a big deal’ isn’t how I feel.” Then, he gives that expression Marco loves—earnest and open—as he finishes quietly, “I really like you.”

There’s a short silence, until Marco finally replies just as quietly, “I like you, too, Jean. And no,” he laughs softly, “I don’t ‘hook up’ with people all the time.” He reaches out to hesitantly rest his hand against Jean’s shoulder. “But even if I did, that wouldn’t change the fact that I like you.” The scared look Jean has on his face when he finally meets Marco’s eyes is so painfully raw, it breaks Marco’s heart. “If you really want this,” Marco says diplomatically, “I don’t care if you’ve never even jerked off before.”

Jean snorts at that and shakes his head. “ _That_ , I have lots of experience with.” He makes a disgruntled face and raises an eyebrow comedically.

Marco laughs, but repeats himself nonetheless. “If you want this, I want it, too. But if you don’t—”

Jean interrupts immediately. “I do.”

Marco smiles a little and holds out his hand. “Let’s go slow, then, okay?”

Jean looks embarrassed and hesitates, but then, after a moment, accepts the offered hand. He slowly sinks back down to lie on his side, and Marco turns to face him so that they’re only inches apart; but then to his surprise, it’s Jean who surges forward to kiss him eagerly.

Jean is as much of a damn good kisser as he was fifteen minutes ago, and Marco’s taken off guard yet again. He melts into the kiss with a soft sound, his body relaxing.

Jean pulls back abruptly, apparently waiting for a verdict as he stares at Marco expectantly with wide eyes.

All Marco can is give a dazed look and say, “Wow.”

A self-satisfied grin breaks out over Jean’s face, but it’s not so much smug as it is pleased.

“Well,” he explains, still grinning, “I didn’t say I’d never _kissed_ anyone before...” He sobers a little, though, as he adds, “Just nothing beyond that.”

Marco nods, not wanting him to start feeling insecure again, and moves to forward to kiss him again.

Jean’s hand immediately hovers awkwardly in the air, and Marco guides it to sit at his waist. He can feel the death grip starting to take hold, but then Jean unexpectedly relaxes his hand; he’s a fast learner.

The noises he’s making—little, quiet moans in the back of his throat—are also making Marco’s cock throb.

As the kiss breaks, Jean asks breathlessly, “Will you keep doing what you were doing before?” 

Marco smiles and nods, carefully pushing Jean onto his back again and starting to kiss at his neck.

Just the _sound_ Jean makes as Marco presses his tongue against Jean’s pulse makes even the hottest sex he’s ever had pale in comparison. The subsequent shudder that travels through Jean’s entire body is also completely intoxicating, especially when one of Jean’s hands rise to tangle in Marco’s hair.

Marco opts to pay attention to Jean’s ear next, which earns a dramatic gasp, and then a loud, uninhibited moan and arch of his back.

Noted.

He stays there, giving Jean a chance to explore, and sure enough, Jean’s hand slides slowly down Marco’s spine, fingers tracing curiously over ribs, and then stopping at the small of his back. Jean rubs his thumb there in a motion that seems almost absentminded, but it’s such an openly affectionate gesture that Marco feels his heart skip a few beats.

But then, to his surprise, Jean’s hand strays around to the front. 

Just as he’s about to say that’s a little fast for _him_ , though, all he can do is groan as he realizes that Jean is actually touching himself.

“God,” he whispers into Jean’s ear, biting the lobe in order to feel Jean jerk and moan, “you’re so hot.”

Jean makes an embarrassed noise, but Marco just continues to tease Jean’s earlobe between his teeth, kissing at the soft skin just beneath that, before gently smoothing his hand down to ease his fingers up under the hem of Jean’s shirt.

“Is this okay?” he whispers.

Jean murmurs, “Yeah,” before moving his hand to Marco’s back again and pressing close. He works his own fingers up under Marco’s t-shirt, and Marco gives an emotional sigh.

This is far more intense than even in his wildest dreams (of which there have been many), or even compared to past hookups, which, to be fair, have never been particularly frequent. 

“You’re hot, too,” Jean stammers in response. “Um...” he makes the gentle stroking motion with his thumb again, and it’s at that moment Marco realizes how deep into this he already is. “I really like your freckles,” he blurts out quickly, a deep blush burning his cheeks again as he adds, “especially the ones on your shoulders.”

“Are you using me for my freckles, Jean?” Marco breathes, and Jean laughs. The laugh immediately turns into a gasp, though, as Marco slides his hand further up under Jean’s shirt.

“Just tell me,” Marco whispers against his ear, making Jean tense, “if I do something you don’t like.” He licks at Jean’s ear again, and Jean stifles a moan. “Okay?” he asks, waiting for confirmation.

“Okay,” Jean replies after a moment. “But you’re doing good so far.”

Marco laughs a little and pushes Jean onto his back again, lavishing attention on his ear and neck, before kissing down to his collar bones again through the soft blue t-shirt he’s wearing. It smells like fabric softener—a trait that Marco has come to realize is probably something ingrained into him by his mother after hearing a few stories about the chores Jean was forced to do as a kid. No one can knock a guy for having life skills, though.

Marco lets out a pleased hum as Jean’s hand come to rest tenuously against the back of his head, fingers immediately stroking through his hair. He slides his other hand up Jean’s side to his ribs, stroking around the curve of them with a thumb.

Jean sighs and his grip tightens minutely as Marco kisses down his chest, taking his time to explore the different reactions he gets. He’s slow when he pushes Jean’s shirt up to reach more skin to kiss, but Jean seems nothing but enthusiastic. He even goes so far as to sit up, pull the t-shirt over his head, and drop it on the floor.

Marco doesn’t question it. Instead, he wraps one hand comfortingly around Jean’s waist in an attempt to make him feel safe, and then immediately kisses down to his sternum to pay attention to his nipples. 

It ends up that Jean’s ears are more sensitive, although there are no complaints as Marco bites and sucks, eliciting little whimpers and soft gasps from Jean that are absolutely maddening to listen to. Marco is relatively sure he could do this for hours and not get bored of hearing the full array of sounds that Jean is capable of emitting.

Finally, after a particularly loud cry and a whimper, Marco smiles a little against his chest and then moves back up to kiss him on the mouth again.

This time, he’s ready for it when Jean makes a sudden move to pull him on top, and Marco simply goes in the direction he’s pulled. One of his knees lands between Jean’s legs, and Jean immediately grinds up against it.

He moans, tilting his head back as his cock rubs against Marco’s thigh, the stiff fabric of his jeans making it agonizing to even watch.

Well, that, and Marco’s so hard he feels like he’s going to pass out. Jean is incomprehensibly attractive to begin with, much less moaning and breathing hard as he ruts against Marco.

Marco repositions himself so their hips are pressed together, and he pushes his own body down against Jean’s. 

“Mm,” he hums, cradling Jean’s head as he meets a wide-eyed stare, “you’re amazing.”

Jean immediately flushes and looks away, but there’s a little smile trying to bend his mouth.

“Sorry if this is lame,” he says softly. Something about it breaks Marco’s heart all over again, and he shakes his head.

“You are the hottest thing I’ve ever had in my bed,” Marco whispers into his ear, and Jean gasps and gives a hard push of his hips up.

They start to frot against each other, until Jean’s whining and he has both legs wrapped around Marco, desperately moving his entire body.

His mouth drops open as he shudders, his features squeezed in exquisite agony, and Marco feels his body stiffen.

He looks totally blissful, and Marco just watches him for a moment, until his eyes pop open in horror.

“I just came in my pants,” he blurts out. “Oh my god, I’m—”

Marco shushes him with a quick kiss, and Jean stops talking as Marco rolls off to the side and pulls Jean against him.

“You came for me,” he murmurs in a low, husky voice. 

“Yeah,” Jean replies breathlessly, as if unsure of how to respond except with the truth.

“Was that good for you?” Marco asks, smoothing Jean’s hair away from his face.

“Y-yeah,” Jean whispers, finally relaxing again as Marco strokes his side. “But... I...”

Marco patiently waits for him to finish, expecting Jean to deny what just happened was okay, but then he surprises Marco. 

“I want to make you come,” Jean finally blurts out. 

“Oh, okay,” Marco replies awkwardly in surprise. As soon as Jean cringes, Marco shakes his head; he really needs to explain himself more quickly. “No!” he exclaims. “I want that, too... but I don’t want to make you feel like you have to do something you’re not comfortable with.”

“I want to do it,” Jean replies immediately, staring directly at Marco with a confidence that’s half-feigned, half-genuine.

“Okay,” Marco replies dumbly, totally transfixed by Jean’s lips that are very well-kissed and the beautiful flush to his cheeks. “Jean?” he asks suddenly, wrapping a firm hand around Jean’s shoulder.

“Uh, yeah?” Jean replies, looking taken aback.

“I always want you to be honest about what you do or don’t want, okay?” Marco asks, raising his eyebrows plaintively. “Whether we do this once, or more than once, that’s really important to me.”

“Okay,” Jean whispers, his eyes wide. He swallows hard, and adds, “Um, and... more than once would be good.”

Marco’s serious look fades into an amused expression, and he laughs a little.

“So, what should I do?” Jean asks softly. He looks a little embarrassed, but far more open to direction than before.

“You said you jerked off,” Marco says carefully. “Did you ever jerk off thinking about me?”

Jean makes an embarrassed noise, but he doesn’t withdraw. “Um,” he murmurs in a hesitant tone, “yeah.” 

Marco rolls onto his back, reaching down to touch himself as Jean watches intently; his cock is so hard it aches through the jeans he’s wearing, and he gives himself a gentle squeeze that makes his breath catch. 

“Tell me what you thought about,” he directs, unzipping the jeans and letting his cock free with a sigh of relief, before realizing this might be pushing things a little far. 

Sure enough, Jean is staring at Marco’s cock with a look nothing short of awed, and his eyes shift to Marco’s face.

“Is this okay?” Marco asks quickly, freezing. “Sorry, I should’ve asked before I just—”

“Yeah,” Jean interjects, looking dazed. After a moment, though, he blinks twice, as if snapping out of a trance, and he nods eagerly. “More than okay.”

Marco smiles at little and nodding, before letting out another sigh of relief and spitting into his hand. He reaches down to give himself a few strokes—no assistance needed in the erection department, since apparently Jean just staring at him is a powerful aphrodisiac—and he settles back.

“Tell me what went through your mind,” he says, his voice low and rough, “when you fantasized about me.”

Jean is absolutely silent, still watching the motions of Marco’s hand, until he stutters, “Um, I thought about...” He swallows hard. “Are you sure?”

“Fuck, yes,” Marco grits out, straining to stop himself from coming based solely on the fact that Jean is watching. He lets his eyes slip shut and concentrates on listening to Jean’s descriptions; he doesn’t want this to end too quickly.

“I thought about being on my knees,” Jean whispers, and even though his eyes are closed, Marco knows he’s blushing, “um, sucking you off.”

Marco groans and arches his back slightly, and to his surprise, he feels a quick kiss pressed to his shoulder. 

The wet sound of his hand sliding up and down his cock makes it even hotter, and Jean kisses his shoulder again, adding a little bite as a bonus. Then, he gets more ambitious as he presses forward and rubs his foot against Marco’s.

“Thought about you fucking me,” he murmurs, his breath coming faster, “about you pushing me face down on the bed and just fucking me so hard I forgot my own name.”

“Jesus,” Marco murmurs, stroking faster.

“And how I’d ride your dick,” Jean continues, starting to pant. “Then, you’d... you’d grab me and jerk me off, and you’d moan my name...”

“ _Jean,_ ” Marco moans as he starts to orgasm, letting out a loud, shrill sound as his cock spurts come twice, and then he shivers as he lets go, giving a sated, relaxed sigh.

To his surprise, Jean immediately curls around him like an octopus, and his eyes widen.

Jean Kirschstein is a cuddler; admittedly, one thing Marco wasn’t expecting.

Thankfully for Jean, Marco also happens to be rather fond of cuddling, and he gathers Jean into his arms, enjoying the shared body heat.

“Is this weird?” Jean immediately asks, obviously hoping the answer is no.

“No,” Marco says softly, rubbing his hand up and down Jean’s back. “This is nice, although I would like to get properly cleaned up eventually.” He hesitates, though, and then opts to lean over and pluck a tissue out of the box. “Then again, there are a lot of people out there.”

Jean laughs a little at that and nods, but then he presses his face against Marco’s chest and wraps an arm tightly around him.

He isn’t sure what this is, but whatever it is, he concludes he likes it as he settles next to Jean and starts to doze off. There’s plenty of time to figure it out.

= = =

**Spring Semester (Jean’s freshman year, Marco’s junior year)**

It’s not the best decision to get so distracted by your friend with benefits that your daily routine starts changing.

No matter how much you start showing up late to morning classes because you wanted to stay in bed with him. 

No matter that all you can think about now when you jerk off is how he looks when he orgasms.

No matter that it feels like you’ve known him your entire life.

No matter how much you look forward to seeing him every night, even when you told some classmate you’d go to an off-campus party, and instead go back to your room, praying he doesn’t have plans.

No matter how many times you’ve told yourself that this isn’t a relationship, that he’s your friend and friends don’t think about shit like this.

But “you”—being Marco Bodt—also aren’t so stupid and naive to think that a friend with benefits will ever be anything more than what it is, much less amount to someone you could spend the rest of your life with.

Sometimes, though, being stupid feels pretty good.

= = =

It’s freezing, and Marco’s shivering as he stamps cold, wet feet at the front door and kicks off his shoes. All he wants to do is make hot chocolate and burrow under his blankets with a book for the rest of the afternoon.

He makes his way up the stairs quickly, looking over in concern at Jean and Connie’s room, wondering if they’re warm enough. The heat in the old house can be undependable this time of year.

His coat is already halfway down his arms when he throws his bedroom door open, greeted with a blast of blissfully warm air since he has the only radiator in the house that consistently works... only to find Jean curled up in his bed, all the blankets piled over him, sound asleep.

Apparently, though, his dramatic entrance was loud enough to rouse Jean from his afternoon nap, and he looks over at Marco guiltily, immediately sitting up.

“Sorry,” he says sheepishly, scrambling to get out of Marco’s bed, “I’ll make the bed. It’s just... it has to be like forty degrees in my room, and—”

Marco doesn’t let him finish as he drops his wet jacket on the floor and literally launches himself at Jean, diving happily under the covers and pulling Jean with him.

“It’s cold outside,” he shivers, pulling a squirming, unhappy Jean against him.

“Fuck! You’re freezing!” Jean cries, flinching away since he’s only wearing a pair of fleece pants and no shirt. “Get away!”

Marco laughs and doesn’t relent. “And you’re so _warm!_ Exactly what I was looking for.”

Jean lets out a sound that reminds Marco of when he used to tackle his little sisters, and his failed escape attempts result in most of Marco’s clothes coming off in the process to get at the warm skin underneath, until he’s down to a t-shirt and boxers.

He grins at Jean, pulling the sheet up over their heads so they’re buried underneath together.

“Can we just stay here?” he asks plaintively. “So I never have to brave the tundra to reach our illustrious ice castle college again?”

Jean laughs, yawning as he blinks heavily. “Well,” he reasons, “you’ll be graduating soon anyway, right? And then you don’t have to worry about it.”

Marco pauses, not knowing what to say suddenly, and Jean’s eyes open. They just stare at each other for a few awkward beats of silence, until Jean clears his throat with a shrug and Marco redirects the conversation.

Nevertheless, he wraps both arms around Jean, pulling him close—as if to make up for the observation that he’ll be graduating (and thus, leaving) first—and hugging him tightly, before saying innocently, “So, did your mom send you that hot chocolate again?”

“You drank the entire container last time,” Jean immediately retorts, his voice amused where it’s muffled against Marco’s chest, already sounding sleepy again. “So I hid it.”

Marco finally has to come out from under the covers for air, and he pushes the sheet down a little; Jean apparently disapproves of this plan, and immediately pulls it up to their necks, pressing just as tightly against Marco.

“I bought marshmallows,” Marco says nonchalantly, waiting.

Jean waits, but then pulls away to give Marco an evaluative look.

Marco smiles at him, and then the smile just gets wider as he takes in Jean’s face fully since he first walked through the door.

His hair is mussed, he’s got slight circles under his eyes from staying up late to study with Marco the night before, and those collarbones Marco loves to kiss are standing out prominently from his strong shoulders.

“What?” Jean asks, eyebrows raised as he gives Marco a baffled look.

“Um, you look really tired,” he blurts out, “sorry if I kept you up late.”

Jean smiles at him a little. “No problem,” he replies softly, ducking his head and shrugging.

Marco is convinced that it’ll take a lifetime for Jean to ever admit outright that he wants to help someone without getting anything in return, as if he’s almost afraid to acknowledge his own kindness.

“I want that hot chocolate.”

“You have to show me the marshmallows first,” Jean retorts in kind, snorting at Marco and rolling over to face away, burrowing back down into the sheets, apparently unconcerned with vacating the bed now that his presence has been approved. “I’m calling your bluff, Bodt.”

Marco decides to fight dirty, and grins over Jean’s shoulder as he presses up against Jean’s back. “Oh, yeah?” he asks, breathing hotly against the back of Jean’s neck, before pressing a few quick kisses there. “Is that so?”

Jean’s breath hitches, but he stubbornly holds on. “Yup.”

By the time Jean’s giving guttural moans—pants down around his thighs as he fucks Marco’s hand—he’s given up on calling Marco’s bluff and he’s begging for him to go faster. 

Marco’s breathing just as hard as he kisses and bites at Jean’s shoulder, loving the way that Jean’s hips are pumping so hard that he’s broken a sweat, and the fact that he can control what’s happening with just his hand.

“You wanna come?” he pants into Jean’s ear, pulling his hand away which earns him an agonized cry.

“Yeah,” Jean slurs, giving a desperate twitch of his hips and frustrated whine.

Marco leans over to slide his bedside drawer open and fumble for the lube, before slicking some onto his hand and dropping it somewhere on the bed.

Now, his hand is slick and he wraps his fingers firmly around Jean’s cock again. “Don’t move,” he whispers sternly into Jean’s ear. Jean lets out an outright shudder as he struggles to keep his body in check, but he does as instructed.

Marco encircles his cock and squeezes gently; Jean gasps sharply, and then moans long and low as Marco rubs his thumb against the head, slick with precome and spit.

“Yeah,” Jean pants, throwing head back and flexing his back. “Marco...”

Marco slowly starts to stroke him again, teasing at the underside of his cock, before showing mercy and speeding up to let Jean find his orgasm.

He’s gorgeous like this—muscles tense, smelling like, come, sweat, and that masculine, fragrant undertone of aftershave—and his breath stutters to a halt as he starts to come, hips twitching as he groans Marco’s name.

After a moment, his entire body relaxes, and turns his head to nuzzle Marco’s cheek; Jean’s always needy after he comes, and Marco always gives him what he wants.

He kisses Jean’s forehead, wiping his hand off on the sheets and then embracing him, pulling him close.

Jean hums dreamily, heaving a deep, contented sigh that comes straight from his core, and he lazily turns to press up against Marco.

“Better than hot chocolate,” he says, laughing tiredly. “But I guess now I’m really gonna have to change the sheets, huh?”

Marco laughs, too, pulling Jean fully against him and idly stroking his back.

Neither one of them speak again, and Marco is relieved to be as warm as he is, since he can actually _hear_ the fat flakes hitting the window of his room, and they show no sign of stopping.

He’s just about asleep—Jean’s already snoring against him in post-orgasmic slumber—when there’s a sharp knock at his door.

“Marco?” comes a voice that he recognizes as Franz.

He muffles a groan as he rolls over away from Jean and calls out wearily, “Yeah? I’m taking a nap.”

“Oh, sorry!” Franz says back through the door, sounding embarrassed. “Um...”

Marco sighs. He’s being a bad frat brother.

“What’s up?” he adds, trying not to sound put out.

“I need some advice,” Franz replies immediately, sounding almost desperate. “Uh, it’s kind of an emergency.”

Marco sighs, knowing “emergency” usually means “what am I doing with my life” when it comes to underclassmen, and he grumbles as he pulls away from Jean.

Jean does more than grumble as he curses under his breath, Franz’s name thrown in more than a few times, with a scowl that Marco knows he _should not_ find as adorable as he does.

He pulls on a pair of pants, smoothing his hair down into place and throwing the quilt more fully over Jean, but then hesitates.

“Um, Jean?” he asks softly.

Jean makes a sleepy, irritable noise, but manages to open his eyes blearily. “Hm?” he hums.

“Franz is going to see you in here, you know.”

That immediately piques Jean’s attention, and Marco knows he’s said the wrong thing—as usual—when Jean sits up stick straight and meets Marco eye for eye.

“Got it,” he replies curtly, searching around for his pants with an angry, imprecise hand. “I won’t embarrass you.”

“That’s not what I meant!” Marco cries, shaking his head and immediately feeling emotion roil in his chest as adrenaline starts to flood his veins. 

Jean spares him a glance, but at least he’s hesitating; he’s not as angry as he used to be—at least not with Marco—but he’s still almost always on the defensive.

“Well, what did you mean?”

Marco puts his hands out in a plea. “I meant that _you_ might be embarrassed,” he replies, shaking his head. “I just didn’t want to put you in an awkward position.”

Jean huffs at him, but doesn’t argue. “I don’t care what anyone thinks of me,” he retorts haughtily; a statement which Marco knows is half true, half not. 

There’s another knock, and Franz’s voice is even more embarrassed when he says, “Oh no, I’m really sorry if you’re... um...” he coughs, but continues, “I just realized Jean’s not in his room.”

Marco swings around to stare at Jean, and Jean just stares at him; until Marco starts to laugh and Jean just lets out an agonized groan and pulls the blankets over his head, hiding underneath of them.

If Marco had any doubts before that his and Jean’s “arrangement” is the worst kept secret in the history of “we’re just friends,” he doesn’t now. 

He cracks the door open and doesn’t address Franz’s former query, but does step outside to listen to the angsty tale of how him and Hannah have had a fight, and he doesn’t know what to do.

By the time they’re sitting down in the communal kitchen, the kettle going as Marco boils water for his favorite type tea for times of stress—peach spiked with a little whiskey—and he listens to Franz talk sorrowfully about Hannah.

“And you know, it’s all my fault,” he says, shaking his head as he stares at the countertop miserably, wringing his hands. “I think when I asked her to go out to dinner with my parents, she thought I needed their approval or something.” He gives Marco a harrowing look, shaking his head as if he’s talking to Hannah right now. “But it wasn’t about that!”

Marco nods sympathetically. It’s not as if he’s had a lot of luck with relationships, but he can at least appreciate misunderstandings.

“Hey, man,” comes a familiar voice as Connie strides into the kitchen, looking pleased with himself with an expression that Marco very clearly recognizes as “I just got laid and the sex was awesome.” “You just have to be cool and _communicate._ ” He nods sagely, striding over to pour himself some neat whiskey into a mug. “ He takes a sip, looking slick and taking a swallow, until breaking into a coughing fit.

“Yeah, right,” comes a smug voice as Jean strides into the kitchen right behind Connie. “Suddenly you’re the relationship guru just because you have a girlfriend?”

Franz actually snorts a little; then gives Connie an apologetic look when he gets a wounded stare in return.

“Well, you’ve never had a girlfriend,” Connie shoots back when he’s caught his breath, sliding the whiskey discreetly back toward Marco. “How would you know?”

“Who says I haven’t had a girlfriend?” Jean retorts immediately, giving them all a smirk. “Besides, this is coming from a guy whose entire relationship is based on a musical.”

“Hey!” Connie shouts, pointing at Jean. “Similar interests are a must when it comes to building a solid foundation in a budding romantic relationship, and most experts say that you need to—”

“It was your book!” Franz interjects suddenly, pointing at Connie as Connie’s still pointing at Jean. “Hannah’s also mad at me because she found a relationship advice book and thought it was mine. I think it was _yours_!”

Connie snaps his mouth shut, then frowns at all of them and drops his hand. “Well,” he sniffs, “it doesn’t hurt to brush up on your love knowledge.”

That receives a pause, and then a few contemplative hums—as if no one can begrudge him that point—and everyone stops pointing fingers. Even Marco shrugs in agreement; you can’t go wrong brushing up on any relationship knowledge.

“And I want my book back,” Connie adds. Franz snorts, but then when Marco laughs, both of them start to laugh, too.

“Hannah’s mad at you because you asked her to meet your parents?” Jean asks with a raised eyebrow, hopping up to sit on one of the vacant stools at the counter and seizing the mug of whiskey Connie had rejected. 

“Um, I guess,” Franz replies with wide eyes, staring at Jean in surprise.

“That’s fucking stupid,” Jean retorts bluntly, taking a swallow of the whiskey without flinching.

“Well, I’m glad you think my relationship isn’t _worthy_ of your time,” Franz replies sourly, turning back to ignore Jean and look at Marco. “I don’t even know why you’re in a fraternity—which is all about _brotherhood_ —when you’re such an asshole to everyone.”

Marco can tell from the slight twinge on Jean’s face his feelings are hurt, but as usual, he doesn’t show it. Marco’s proud, though, when he at least corrects Franz’s assumption instead of just retreating behind his typical angry exterior.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” Jean replies. Marco can tell it’s like pulling teeth for him to get it out, but he does. “What I meant is that it’s fucking stupid she’s being such a bitch, when you’re trying to do something nice. You’re just not seeing the real problem.”

Although Franz probably doesn’t appreciate his girlfriend being called a bitch, he does turn toward Jean with renewed interest. “What do you mean?”

Just then, Connie pipes in and points at Jean. “You shouldn’t call ladies ‘bitches,’ Jean.”

Jean’s obviously taken a little off guard by this unexpected criticism, and he makes a face. “Why not?” he challenges, though it’s obviously more from wounded pride than any real entitlement to use the word “bitch.”

“Because,” Connie declares, puffing himself up, “it’s misogynistic.”

“Who told you that?” Jean sneers. “Your girlfriend?”

“No,” Connie retorts confidently, crossing his arms dismissively, “my mom.”

Jean looks a little put out at that, and Marco just raises an eyebrow at Jean in silent judgment. He actually happens to agree with Connie on this point, having seven sisters and all.

“Well...” Jean ventures, and they all just stare at him. “Okay, what the fuck ever. Anyway, my point is that she’s obviously just getting nervous because you’re trying to be all serious.”

Franz blinks at Jean in surprise, and even Connie looks taken aback at this unexpected wisdom coming from Jean Kirschstein himself, master of offending people.

“Uh,” Franz finally replies, “actually, she sort of mentioned that a while ago.”

“Duh,” Jean says, rolling his eyes and finishing the whiskey.

“How do you know so much about women?” Connie asks suspiciously.

“I had a steady girlfriend for like four years in high school?” Jean replies smugly. “I have a brain? Man, you guys are self-righteous about the word ‘bitch,’ but you can’t even listen to what your girlfriend is trying to say.”

“All right,” Marco jumps in, “break it up.”

Really, they all know it’s his version of telling Jean to shut up, but no one argues.

“Uh, well,” Franz replies awkwardly. “So what do I do?”

Not wanting the conversation to descend into an argument, now that Jean’s managed to actually say something bordering on amicable, Marco decides to jump in. He smiles easily as he starts to respond to Franz. “Well, you could—”

Suddenly, he’s cut off abruptly.

“No offense, Marco,” Franz interjects awkwardly, “but... have you ever had a girlfriend?”

“Well, no, I’m gay,” Marco says, giving a friendly smile. He’s been openly gay since he got to college.

This time, it’s Connie who hesitantly asks, “Um, well, have you ever had a boyfriend?”

Marco’s mouth snaps shut, and he can feel his face starting to heat.

There’s a heavy silence, until Marco finally says diplomatically, “Maybe I’m not the best one to be giving advice.”

They all look at Marco apologetically—Marco Bodt is much beloved by everyone in the frat—and he just shrugs with an embarrassed little hum. “I’ve just never been in a serious relationship,” he says simply. “I guess it’s just not for me.”

As soon as he says the words, he regrets them, because he knows damn well they’re not completely true.

But he’s not sure what hurts more: the fact that Jean doesn’t even seem to notice, or that Marco just admitted to himself without meaning to that Jean has been a game-changing experience.

“Uh, Marco, are you okay?” 

Marco blinks a few times, focusing on Connie. “What?”

“You like... totally zoned out, man,” Connie replies with wide eyes. Even Jean is looking at him in concern, and Franz is staring, too.

“I think the weather’s getting to me,” Marco states with an apologetic smile. “You guys enjoy the tea and whiskey. I’m going to get some sleep. I think you’ll be able to help each other way more than I could, anyway.” He smiles more widely to show them that he’s taken no offense, but they all look at him with some mixture of pity and regret that makes him feel even worse.

Even when Jean slips through his door a few hours later and sits down on the edge of the bed, asking if Marco’s okay, he doesn’t admit his thoughts.

He does emerge, however, for the hot chocolate Jean has brought with him in what seems to be some sort of strange peace offering, even though it’s obvious that Jean has absolutely no idea what he did.

“I, uh, found your marshmallow stash,” he says softly as Marco sits up in bed to sip his hot chocolate. “I may have given some to Connie and Franz.”

Marco snorts, and realizes his head is pounding. He takes another sip of the hot chocolate, hoping the sugar will give him a little boost.

“I’m glad you guys are becoming friends,” Marco says with a little smile, turning to look at Jean. 

“Don’t get any ideas,” Jean retorts, shooting Marco a skeptical look. After a moment, though, he starts to laugh as he finishes his hot chocolate. “They’re not so bad, I guess.”

After they’re finished, Marco settles back down into bed—suddenly very grateful for the pillow under his aching head—and Jean leaves with both of their mugs.

He’s far more dismayed that he should be when Jean doesn’t come back, and instead, Marco hears the door to Jean and Connie’s room open and close.

The worst part is that Jean’s not even mad at him; he’s just viewing this arrangement the way Marco _should_ be: a friend with benefits.

Marco’s relieved to fall into a deep sleep before he can ponder the confusing situation for any longer. 

= = =

Regardless that Marco used fatigue as an excuse solely to escape the awkward conversation in the kitchen, within two days, he’s genuinely so sick he can’t get out of bed. He endures a whole week of it, until he feels like he’s losing his mind and not getting better.

Even though it’s nearly May, the freak snow storm that actually shut the college down for a few days is still melting, and the entire world seems damp and wet.

Marco is either too hot or too cold; starving or not hungry; sleeping for ten hours or unable to sleep at all. It’s pure and utter misery.

A few people have checked in on him periodically, and he’d given pathetic little waves and reassured them he had everything he needed. He’d even asked Jean to get him cough drops one night, although he hadn’t expected him to walk a mile in the snow off campus to retrieve cough drops from the nearest drugstore at eleven o’clock at night.

After the fact, he’d been grateful, though, since he’d spent the night coughing pitifully and hacking up disgusting substances he’d rather not think about.

However, it’s gotten to the point where he’s considering calling his mother in Jinae since he doesn’t seem to be getting better, until Jean shows up at his door the afternoon after the cough drop sojourn.

“Okay,” he sings, opening Marco’s door and carrying an actual tray. “Time for lunch. Sit up.”

Marco blinks at him in surprise, peeking out from over the top of the comforter cautiously. “What?” he croaks.

“It’s shitty Campbell’s chicken noodle soup, but it’s food.” Jean states with a shake of his head. “I also brought you tea, since I figured those cough drops make you gag after a while. Gross.”

“You brought me soup?” Marco asks in disbelief, venturing further out of the bedclothes.

“Hey,” Jean says with a smile, sitting down on the edge of Marco’s bed and setting the tray down on the standard college-issue bedside table. “What are frat brothers for?”

“Ew,” Marco groans, sneezing in the process. “Never call me brother again.”

Jean snorts and pokes Marco gently in the shoulder through the blankets. “Okay, fair point,” he agrees after a moment, grinning shamelessly. “Now, c’mon. Eat some of this so you don’t just... die in here. No one’s seen you for a week, and now they’re asking _me_ where you are, like I’m your wife or something.”

For some reason, the insinuation that Jean is his partner makes Marco flush, and he’s relieved he can chalk it up to being feverish.

He hums miserably as he struggles to sit up against the two extra pillows that Jean props behind him, and he accepts the bowl and spoon with shaky hands.

Jean just watches him with a satisfied look as Marco practically inhales the entire bowl of soup, and then eyes the tea with interest.

“I put lemon in it, the way you like it,” he says, his voice a little sheepish. “Sorry to act like your mom or something.”

Marco smiles at him and shakes his head, reaching eagerly for the tea. “Just being nice to someone isn’t a crime.” He takes a sip of the chamomile tea and smiles a little. “Thanks, Jean,” he finishes softly. “I was actually about to _call_ my mom until you came in here.”

“That bad, huh?” Jean asks, his eyebrows raised in concern.

Marco sighs. “It’s been a whole week. I didn’t know what else to do.”

“I didn’t know you were that sick,” Jean replies, looking a little guilty. “I mean, I brought you the cough drops... but...”

“I’m not _dying_ ,” Marco replies with a shrug, and then goes into a coughing fit as Jean rolls his eyes.

“That’s news to me—you look like death.”

“Thanks, Jean,” Marco retorts wryly. He raises his eyebrows, glancing over at the clock. It’s Friday afternoon, and he knows it’s time for Jean’s most hated class—Shadis’s history lecture, part two from the former semester. “You’re gonna be late if you don’t leave.”

“Um,” Jean says sheepishly, looking down as he rises to retrieve the empty soup bowl and biting his lip, “I asked Shadis if I could make up the work because I had an emergency.”

Marco just stares at him, trying not to let his mouth drop open, lest he spread his germs. Or just because he doesn’t want to betray his surprise.

“Oh,” he practically squeaks, his voice hoarse from coughing.

Jean’s eyes widen and he immediately puts on that indifferent, defensive look Marco hates, shrugging his shoulders a little. “It’s no big deal.”

Not wanting to embarrass him, Marco immediately switches gears and offers him a warm smile. “Thanks, Jean. I really appreciate it.” 

Jean hazards a look up at him, blushing a little, but then, he just nods with a softer expression. “You’re the best friend I’ve made here...” He hesitates, as if wanting to elaborate on the meaning of that, but finishes diplomatically, “And you know, friends look out for each other, right?”

Jean is so unerringly loyal it makes Marco reel; and the way he tries to hide it makes it even more astounding, as if he thinks it’s a bad quality.

“Yeah,” Marco finally answers as Jean stares at him, waiting for a verdict. He visibly relaxes when he hears Marco’s answer, and then he smiles with that smug expression Marco _used_ to hate, but has since grown to— 

_Grown to like very much,_ Marco’s mind immediately substitutes, blocking his thoughts from where they were about to venture.

“So,” Jeans continues brightly, avoiding making the moment any more sentimental than it already is, “what else do you need?”

Marco looks at him hesitantly, feeling silly for requesting things, but Jean just sits there, waiting expectantly.

“Um,” he says, laughing wryly, “you know those storage boxes under my bed?”

“Yeah,” Jean replies, tilting his head to the side curiously.

“Can you help me get out fresh sheets?” Marco says in a hurry, feeling more ridiculous by the second. “There are these flannel ones... and the ones on here are kind of gross and sweaty, and—”

Jean is already underneath the bed, rifling around. “Is it the one labeled ‘Sheets and stuff?’” he asks, a grin evident in his voice.

“Yeah,” Marco laughs, trying to sit up and immediately regretting it. “Uggh...” He closes his eyes immediately, feeling dizzy, and then to his surprise he feels a comforting hand supporting the back of his shoulder and helping him lie back down.

“You’re such a pain,” Jean remarks softly, his voice gently teasing. “You’re sick. Just accept it already.”

Marco lets out a defeated, frustrated grumble, but lies back against the pillows. “I can’t just _lie_ here for another week,” he retorts, feeling grumpy.

“You want to watch a movie downstairs?” Jean offers. “I bet you’re not contagious anymore.”

Marco cracks an eye open at Jean, and slowly opens the other one. “What movie?” he asks, fully aware that he sounds like a seven year old, but not really caring at this point.

Jean laughs, bending back down to rifle through Marco’s storage box.

“Well, since you’re going to fall asleep and I have to catch up on work, how about that history documentary about...” 

Marco interrupts Jean with a groan, pulling the pillow over his head. “Anything but that,” he pleads. “My brain isn’t working.” He emerges after a few seconds, rolling onto his side to look at Jean plaintively. 

“Okay, okay,” Jean agrees, laughing a little. “What about...”

“Sci-fi?” Marco asks hopefully, raising his eyebrows in a way he hopes is convincing. “It can even be something modern, if you want!” 

Jean knows all too well that Marco is overly fond of 1960s-era Doctor Who and Star Trek episodes, a fact that Marco generally won’t admit until he spends enough time with someone that he can’t deny it anymore, which is exactly what had happened over the winter break. They were stuck at the frat house due to multiple family and weather-related reasons, and they’d done two things every day: watch Marco’s impressive collection of sci-fi DVDs, and get each other off.

“Okay,” Jean agrees hesitantly, a skeptical look on his face. “But it has to be made in the last decade.”

“Fine,” Marco nods cheerfully, looking forward to finally getting out of bed.

Jean pulls some blankets and sheets partway out of the plastic storage bin, eyeing them curiously. “Which ones?”

“Um, the flannel ones with the horses?” Marco asks sheepishly, feeling his face starting to burn. They’re his favorite, and although he feels like he’s suddenly ten years old, he’s surprised when Jean just snorts.

“You’re a dork,” he declares.

“You don’t like horses?”

Jean looks up sharply, a pensive look crossing face. Marco stops smiling, taken aback as Jean glances away.

“What’s wrong?” Marco asks cautiously. Jean just grunts, rifling around through the box to find the requested sheets. “C’mon, Jean,” he prods, reaching out to poke Jean in the shoulder.

Jean finally darts his eyes up, still hesitant, but he seems to decide to spill to Marco. “Well,” he starts carefully, his voice guarded, “it’s pretty stupid, but when I was little, people used to call me horseface.” He laughs wryly, rolling his eyes. “I mean, whatever, but... when you’re kind of chubby and short and whatever, it’s not so great.”

Marco decides to tactfully omit the fact that he can see how Jean does sort of resemble a horse, with his long nose, smug smile, and self-satisfied expressions; but it’s mitigated by the fact he finds it ridiculously adorable.

He clears his throat. “Well, that’s not very nice.” Marco’s eyes widen as he studies Jean after a moment. “Wait, did you think I was making fun of you?”

“No,” Jean mumbles, closing the plastic storage bin. 

“You did so!” Marco exclaims, pointing at Jean. He smiles a little, reaching out to poke Jean’s leg playfully, but then he sobers when Jean doesn’t say anything. “Jean,” Marco says more seriously, “I’d never say something I really thought would hurt your feelings.”

Jean hazards a glance up at him. “It’s not like I’m traumatized or something.” He laughs wryly and shrugs, but then continues softly, “Um, it’s more that...” he continues softly, kicking at the floor self-consciously, “I care a lot about your opinion.” He says it so quietly, Marco almost thinks he hasn’t heard right; but Jean Kirschstein unmistakably just admitted that he actually cares about what someone else thinks of him.

Marco also knows very well that if he makes a big deal out of it, Jean with withdraw and get defensive. Instead, he smiles warmly and reaches out to poke Jean again. “Thanks,” he replies simply, “that means a lot coming from you.”

Jean offers him a small smile, but it’s genuine; then he shifts his stance and puts on his regular expression. “Besides,” he declares, “why else would I take care of your diseased, sorry ass?”

Marco gives a dramatic groan as he flips onto his back and throws his forearm over his face. “I’m dying,” he replies flatly.

Jean just rolls his eyes at Marco’s melodramatic antics and helps him up, guiding him into the shower after mentioning that Marco smelled like a barn. By the time Marco gets out and is ready to change into fresh pajamas, he’s shocked when he finds his bed immaculately made with fresh sheets. The dirty dishes have disappeared, and there’s a fresh glass of water on the bedside table. Jean is nowhere to be found, though.

Marco’s face softens; he’s never had a friend that went this far to help him when he needed it. 

He quickly takes another dose of Nyquil and chugs some water, and then manages to make his way shakily down the stairs. There’s Jean, waiting on the couch with Marco’s other big, fluffy comforter that he undoubtedly found in the box with the sheets.

“Is that for me?” Marco rasps hopefully, pointing at the comforter. It’s not often people spoil him like this; being the second oldest in a family of eight children, usually he’s expected to be the one in charge.

“No,” Jean deadpans, “it’s to wrap your corpse in when you actually do die.”

Marco gives him a sarcastic smirk, which is belied by the way he shuffles pathetically over to the couch and collapses onto it, pulling the comforter tightly around him. It’s blissfully warm and soft, and he makes a happy sound.

“Okay,” Jean says, standing and letting Marco get comfortable, “I’ll go get my computer and we can watch something on Netflix.”

“Mm,” Marco hums, nodding. “I’ll just stay here and take a nap,” he says dreamily, his eyes feeling heavy.

“No naps,” Jean retorts firmly. “Now that you’re up, you have to entertain me.”

Marco grumbles at him, which only makes Jean grin as he turns to ascend the stairs.

By the time Marco has situated himself in the perfect position for maximum comfort and warmth, wrapped in his cocoon of quilt, he’s half-asleep as he hears someone bound down the stairs. Connie’s tread is unmistakable, and he peeks out over the top to offer a lame grunt of greeting.

“Hi, Marco!” Connie says in surprise, giving a little wave. He rubs the back of his head worriedly. “Are you okay? I haven’t seen in you in a week.”

Marco nods, coughing a little into his hand. “Just sick. I was going to call my mom it got so bad, but I’m getting better now.”

Connie nods, the worried expression still present as he retrieves two slices of bread and a jar of peanut butter from the cupboard—basically their only food at this point in the semester. He slaps some peanut-butter haphazardly onto the bread, closes the jar, and then takes a big bite out of it, turning to face Marco.

“You want a sandwich, man?” Connie asks after a minute, chewing as he eyes Marco with pity.

“Um,” Marco replies, feeling awkward suddenly and not wanting to embarrass Jean, “Jean already brought me soup.”

Connie doesn’t seem fazed by this information at all, though, and just nods with a shrug. “I figured, but I thought I’d ask.” He offers Marco a grin, and then turns away to throw away the paper towel plate he’s been eating off.

There doesn’t seem to be any implied meaning behind his, “I figured,” statement, and Marco feels a little more at ease knowing that other people don’t seem to think that Jean and him are playing house. Everyone knows that they fuck around on a semi-regular basis, but it remains unspoken.

“Besides,” Connie says, pulling on his jacket, “I figured Jean would want to meet your mom if she comes by to bring you food.”

Marco lets out an agonized sound and pulls the comforter over his head in mortification. Connie just makes a puzzled sound, before saying cheerfully, “Well, okay then. I’m headed to Sash’s for the night. See ya!”

And with that, Marco hears retreating footsteps and the slam of the front door. 

He’s relieved that Jean didn’t hear the conversation, and emerges from the comforter just as Jean bounds down the stairs.

“Sorry I took so long,” he says with an irritated frown. “I couldn’t find my computer.”

He drops onto the end of the couch near Marco’s head and arranges the computer so that they can both see it.

“So,” he says nonchalantly, “I was thinking about ordering pizza. I know you ate lunch a little while ago, but you think you could keep some of that down later?”

Marco blinks at him, and then nods dumbly. Does he not realize how... laughably domestic this is?

Marco immediately chides himself, though, realizing that he’s projecting that expectation onto the situation. He pointedly ignores the dawning realization that such a reaction isn’t out of caution, but desire.

No, no, no. Jean is still a freshman, and he’s still—

Suddenly, Jean’s tugging at Marco’s shirt and within a few moments suddenly his head is pillowed in Jean’s lap—with a sweatshirt for extra padding—and he’s curled against Jean.

“Comfortable?” Jean asks easily.

“Yeah,” Marco squeaks, hoping Jean doesn’t hear the panic in his voice. Apparently, he hides it well enough that Jean doesn’t question the odd tone, and cues up the movie.

He picks the most recent “Star Trek”—something Marco’s seen, but he’s not complaining—and he’s already feeling woozy. Within five minutes, he’s sighing sleepily in his haze of Nyquil as the movie drones on, snuggling into the comforter and enveloped in absolute bliss.

That is, until alarm bells start to go off as his brain desperately tries to alert him to the fact that he’s giving himself away so plainly that it’s pathetic. 

Nevertheless, he can’t bring himself to care as Jean’s fingers immediately come to stroke through his hair, almost absently, and Marco chalks it up to friendship. Even if they’re not “together,” that doesn’t mean that Jean is just some casual stranger.

“Stop thinking and go to sleep, Marco.”

Marco groans and shuts his eyes, snuggling more soundly against Jean. “Wake me up for pizza,” he yawns.

Jean does not wake him up for pizza, because there is no pizza. Instead, Marco wakes up very early the next morning to Jean snoring, sleeping while sitting up, Marco’s head still in his lap. The headache he’s had for days has finally relented, and he actually feels somewhat clearheaded. 

He pulls away quietly, and Jean immediately makes a disgruntled noise, his hand tensing as if he’s about to pull Marco back toward him.

Marco avoids it easily, and then guides Jean to lie down on the couch and tucks the comforter around him, before retreating to the kitchen to make coffee, pondering what to do.

One cup of coffee later—and the dawning realization that he really needs to lie down again—he’s come up with absolutely no solutions or new insights. Then, he’s too tired to think, and decides to wake Jean up.

He doesn’t say anything as they climb the stairs together, simply waiting to see what Jean will do when they get upstairs; Marco’s heart starts to beat faster as Jean simply follows him down the hallway. 

Marco slips into bed, reveling in the feeling of the fresh, fragrant sheets, and he sighs happily.

“How are you feeling?” Jean murmurs softly, blinking sleepily.

“Not bad,” Marco replies softly. For one terrible moment, he thinks Jean’s going to leave, but then Jean climbs in next to him without hesitation and wraps both arms around Marco.

“Better,” Marco adds, fast descending into sleep again.

Jean doesn’t answer, instead starting to rub Marco’s shoulders; Marco doesn’t question it, and slowly falls back to sleep.

And he realizes fully for the first time as he loses consciousness that he doesn’t ever want Jean to leave.

= = =

**Summer Semester [Interim between Jean’s sophomore year, Marco’s senior year]**

It’s not in your best interests when you’re twenty-two years old to put as much stock in hand-holding as you do.

No matter how much you want to hold Jean’s hand everywhere you go like burning.

No matter how you never got to hold hands high school because the first boy you kissed was afraid someone would see.

No matter how much Jean’s hands fascinate you, how quickly he can open bottles or light matches

No matter how perfect it feels when his hand strokes your cock as he whispers how good you sound.

No matter how, these days, holding hands means more to you than sex.

But “you”—being Marco Bodt—are smarter than the average twenty-two-year-old, and you don’t make sentimental mistakes that result in broken hearts.

Sometimes, though, even when you know the risks, just don’t care anymore.

= = =

“This is... inhumane,” Jean says weakly, lying on the couch and wearing nothing except his boxers. “Leaving us this way can’t be legal.”

Marco just groans from where he’s lying on the floor, outfitted in similar garb, and makes a pathetic whining noise. “It has to be a hundred degrees outside.”

“More,” Jean retorts.

They both just lie there. There are three fans blowing on them at different angles, all the windows are open with the blinds drawn to shut out the sun, and Jean even has an ice pack on top of his head.

“When did the guy—”

“ A week,” Marco replies, trying to control his irritation.

Jean has asked when the air conditioning tech is coming at least five times in the last hour, and the answer is always the same. Campus maintenance isn’t exactly what it is during regular terms. There’s hardly anyone around, and there’s no one’s even allowed the dorms that house the majority of on-campus students.

“But—”

“Jean!” Marco snaps, keeping his eyes closed. “Stop being a brat. There’s no AC, and there won’t be for a week. The answer isn’t changing, so stop _asking_ me.”

Okay, so the brat part is a little over the top, but Marco is fed up with Jean’s incessant complaining; it’s started to remind of him of how his little sisters sound when don’t get their way. 

He braces for impact, waiting for Jean to either snap at him and leave or tell him to fuck himself—just another headache he’ll have to deal with—but to his surprise, there’s no answer.

Instead, he hears Jean stand up, probably to go sulk, but instead, nothing else happens. When he opens his eyes, he jumps to see Jean standing over him, scowling down at him.

“What?” Marco challenges, squinting up at him.

“You,” Jean says summarily, his voice surprisingly calm, “are cranky.”

Then, he just crosses his arms and waits.

Marco just stares at him, until finally, he gives a tired groan and starts to laugh.

“Cranky and bratty,” he declares. “The perfect combination.” Jean just snorts at him before offering a hand to help him up.

“C’mon,” he says, “I’m taking you somewhere so you’ll stop being such a bitch.”

“You’re not supposed to use that word,” Marco ventures.

“Whatever,” Jean deadpans as Marco gets to his feet, “it’s fucking a thousand degrees, and Springer’s probably lounging around in some ‘swimmin’ hole’ with his beloved, sipping a frilly umbrella drink made with moonshine. I can say whatever I want.”

Marco laughs and shakes his head. Somehow, the mental image doesn’t seem that unlikely.

They both resentfully get dressed, donning as little clothing as possible.

Unfortunately for Marco, it’s been so hot and he’s had nothing to do except go to his one class twice a week, he hasn’t done laundry for weeks.

The outfit he manages to assemble is extracted from the back of his closet where all the clothes his mother gives him—tags still on—end up. One of his sisters has a high school job at a preppy store in the mall, and she gets a hefty discount.

Unfortunately, Marco’s mother also has no understanding about what she calls in an awkwardly supportive manner, “Marco’s alternate lifestyle.” Therefore, the outfit he throws together would do him proud at a fabulous gay pool party, replete with tangerine manpris (the tag says “mango,” but Marco thinks tangerine is more accurate) and a tight, white v-neck tank-top. The leather flip-flops he wears everywhere are a small consolation, since they actually _contribute_ to the painfully catalogue-ready ensemble. 

Marco groans at himself when he looks in the mirror. His face has even more freckles than usual because of the sun, his hair is a little too long so it has a sort of beach tussled look to it (all he needs are frosted tips and he’d be ready for some 90s MTV pool party), and he can’t deny it: he looks like an extra on Queer As Folk.

But it’s too hot to give a fuck, so he puts on a brave face and strides out to meet Jean.

Jean is sporting a pair of beat up denim shorts and a short-sleeved t-shirt that looks damn good on him—unwittingly and effortlessly hot, as usual—and he just stares in apparent shock as Marco comes down the stairs.

Marco pointedly ignores the stare, fully aware that he looks ridiculous, until Jean blurts out abruptly, “You look like a J. Crew model.”

“Uh, is that good or bad?” Marco asks with a raised eyebrow as he crosses over to the kitchen to retrieve a bottle of water from the refrigerator.

As Marco is guzzling the water, he practically chokes as Jean asks, “Is that orange?” 

“I’m not going if you keep critiquing my wardrobe,” Marco sniffs, crossing his arms and giving Jean a disapproving look. “It’s not my fault my mother thinks that all gay guys love manpris and the color tangerine.”

“You look hot,” Jean says abruptly, and then blushes. Marco realizes suddenly that it’s actually the first compliment Jean’s ever paid him outright.

“Oh, uh,” he falters, not expecting the compliment and feeling unexpectedly bashful. “Thanks.”

Jean clears his throat noisily and then asks, “Okay, you ready?”

“Please tell me your car’s AC works.” 

When there’s no answer, Marco outright whines around the mouthful of water.

“Who’s the brat now?”

= = =

“I never thought people actually did this,” Marco remarks in wonder, staring at their surroundings as he holds tight to his beloved cappuccino that he’s forgone for the last four days due to the heat.

Jean gives a wry grin and rolls his eyes as he looks over at Marco. “Yeah, welcome to the suburbs.”

The mall they’re strolling through is truly a sight to behold, with store after store hosting a variety of mannequins who look like they’re ready to frolic on the beach, but encased by a plate glass window. It seems to be a metaphor for the entire experience, but Marco is too tired to care and too hot to think.

Although, given the industrial air conditioning they’re currently savoring, he’s finally starting to regain some brain activity.

“I have to admit,” he says, shooting Jean a sidelong glance, “this was pretty much the most brilliant idea you’ve ever had.”

“See, I’m good for something,” Jean retorts, grinning at Marco gleefully. “This is the coldest place on Earth outside of the North Pole.”

“Sorry I called you a brat,” Marco mumbles into his coffee, taking another sip of the blessedly steamy, strong beverage.

“It’s okay. I’m an only child,” Jean replies wryly, laughing a little.

He looks much less harried now that they’re in the frigid AC, and Marco makes a note for future reference that Jean’s natural habitat is definitely _not_ hot and humid. Not that Marco’s is, either.

He has to admit, even though they’re on an outing to _the mall_ , it’s oddly enjoyable being away from campus and spending time with Jean, doing things that people do in normal everyday life.

It’s not that they’ve never ventured off campus. There are plenty of reasons that they need to leave—grocery store runs for things not covered by the meal plan, the occasional trip to a museum to fulfill a class assignment—but Marco is quickly discovering how natural it feels for him to be with Jean outside of school. It’s also a little disconcerting.

“There’s this awesome frozen yogurt place,” Jean’s saying, smiling a little and for once, looking totally at ease, “that’s actually owned by my mom’s neighbors, even though it’s in _this_ shit hole.” He looks over at Marco with a disgusted expression and rolls his eyes, and Marco laughs a little.

Jean continues to talk, and Marco is so busy listening that he doesn’t even realize what he’s doing as he switches the coffee to his left hand, and then reaches down to lace his fingers with Jean’s.

It all happens so fast as Jean snaps his mouth shut abruptly and stops dead in his tracks just as Marco’s in mid-step. His hand is wrenched out of Jean’s, spilling coffee all over his immaculate white and tangerine outfit.

“Oh, shit,” Jean hisses, and he sounds genuinely horrified. “Marco, I... didn’t mean...”

Marco is so humiliated—mostly over his own unconscious action and how silly it was of him—that he can only mumble something about going to retrieve napkins.

He makes a beeline for a coffee kiosk in the middle of the mall, fighting down the fast-rising humiliation that he just tried to _hold Jean’s hand_. 

And just when things can’t seem to possibly get any worse, they do.

“Oh my god, Jean?!” comes a shriek that echoes throughout the mall corridor. 

Marco’s eyes widen as he turns around, and watches in abject horror as a girl runs up to Jean, throws her arms around him, and gives him possibly the most _non_ -platonic hug in the history of hugging. Now available with _lingering hand on back_.

“Mina!” Jean exclaims, his eyes wider than Marco’s ever seen them as he takes two steps back.

“You look great!” she says with a big smile, blinking her wide blue eyes. “How’s college life been treating you?”

Jean laughs a little, and Marco’s surprised to see a look of genuine affection come over his face.

Mina.

Jean’s girlfriend. Okay, ex-girlfriend... but still.

Marco just stands there, staring dumbly, and then wants to hide as Jean spots him and motions for him to come over.

“Mina, this is my friend, Marco,” he says. “We’re in a fraternity together.” He adds the last part proudly, and somehow, it gives Marco a little painful, bitter twinge that it never has.

Maybe it’s the coffee currently staining the entire front of his embarrassing ensemble, the fact that Jean’s ex-girlfriend just basically humped him, or that the response to hand-holding—while not something Marco was planning—had been a little over the top.

Unless... Jean is embarrassed of him. And doesn’t want anyone to know about them outside of school. Not that “them” is a thing anyway.

The more Marco thinks about it, the more upset he gets, until he’s practically humming with resentment and just wants to walk out on Jean right now, heat be damned.

“Marco?” Jean’s asking, looking at Marco in complete confusion.

“What?” Marco croaks, and he realizes that Mina is staring at him now, too.

“Oh, I just asked if you were from Jinae,” Mina repeats, tilting her head to the side and looking genuinely concerned. “Are you okay?”

“Oh, yeah,” Marco laughs weakly, still sopping up the nearly-dry mess on the front of his outfit, “sorry. Maybe a little too much caffeine.” Yes, also a good excuse to explain away the way his hands are shaking. “And yeah, I’m from Jinae.”

“Cool!” Mina exclaims with a big smile. “Are you related to Margit Bodt?”

Marco forgets about his embarrassment momentarily and pays more attention, smiling a little more genuinely. “Oh, yeah. Sort of obvious, huh?”

“Oh my god, you guys could be twins!” Mina’s eyes are even wider now, and she’s studying Marco like he’s a lab specimen. How someone so upbeat and earnest put up with Jean for four years is beyond Marco. “Oh man,” she adds once she’s had her ogle, “put in a good word? Wow, she’s a tough teacher.”

Jean’s eyebrows immediately raise. “Your sister’s a college professor?”

“Adjunct,” Marco corrects. “Yeah, she’s—”

“The best professor I’ve ever had!” Mina squeals with a big grin. It’s infectious, and Marco offers up a genuine smile.

“I’ll tell her you said so,” he laughs. “But I can’t guarantee it’ll do any good. I used to suck up to her when she tutored me to try and get out of it, and all she did was tell our mother so I’d get in trouble.”

“Wow,” Mina says, stars practically in her eyes, “it must have been so awesome growing up with the Bodt family.”

“The Bodt family?” Jean asks curiously, looking over at Marco with a raised eyebrow.

Marco fights the urge to groan, shifting from resenting Mina, to liking her, to resenting her again; even though he knows he’s being ridiculous and petty.

“Yeah!” Mina enthuses. “Only some of the greatest minds in the legal community! Your mom’s a judge, right?”

“Yup,” Marco confirms, hiding behind his (empty) coffee cup.

“And your dad’s—” she continues excitedly.

“The main legal counsel for the mayor of Sina,” he finishes, trying not to sound irritable. “Yeah, that’s us all right.”

Jean’s practically staring at Marco with his mouth hanging open at this point.

“So, I guess you’re pre-law then?”

“No,” Marco corrects politely, trying not to betray his annoyance, since he’s had the same conversation every time someone knows who his family is for the last twenty-two years of his life. “I’m an English Literature major.”

“Oh, um, okay,” Mina replies, looking more befuddled than judgmental. She brightens immediately though, smiling. “That’s cool! So, are you the creative one?”

Marco smiles a little at that—appreciating the lack of the ever-so-whimsical phrase “black sheep”—and nods. “Something like that.”

The conversation meanders a bit, and Marco finally starts to relax, genuinely enjoying Mina’s company. He even manages to forget about what happened fifteen minutes prior, until the subject of the fraternity comes back up.

“So,” Mina says, nudging Jean’s shoulder, “you guys must have girls all over all the time. You got yourself a hot college girl, Jean?”

If the blush that immediately stains Jean’s cheeks got any redder, he’d probably explode.

“No,” he grunts. He doesn’t elaborate, and Mina turns her attention to Marco.

“Don’t look at me,” Marco says, putting both hands in the air and giving a weak smile. “I’m gay.”

“Wow,” Mina replies, looking genuinely impressed, “you guys must be in one of those frats people actually like.”

Jean starts to laugh unexpectedly, and he nods. “It’s pretty cool.” When he looks over at Marco, his expression is warm, but Marco doesn’t return it and looks away. “And I’ve made a lot of really good friends,” Jean adds, prompting Marco to restart his plan for an escape route if he somehow gets roped into hanging out with Jean and his ex in a setting any more social than this one.

He’s so deep into his own thoughts, though, that he barely notices Jean grabbing his hand.

And then Jean is holding his hand.

Jean is holding his hand.

In front of Mina.

“Don’t drop your coffee,” he cautions, squeezing Marco’s hand gently.

“You are such a jerk,” Marco croaks, trying not to sound emotional.

“Oh my god, Jean,” Mina blurts out without missing a beat, “you’re gay? Did you come out?”

Jean just snorts, immediately putting up that defensive front that Marco’s accustomed to—and he, assumes, Mina is, too—and rolls his eyes.

But he doesn’t deny it, and he doesn’t let go of Marco’s hand.

“No offense, but that actually explains a lot,” Mina adds, looking thoughtful.

“ _Mina!_ ” Jean cries, immediately dropping the act as quickly as he started it. He looks mortified, and Marco takes it as a cue to return the favor.

He squeezes Jean’s hand back, and he smiles easily. “Jean didn’t come out. We just... get along. It’s his choice what he wants to tell other people, though.”

To Marco’s surprise, Mina is staring at them in what appears to be disgust, but then she blurts out, “You guys are so cute it’s _grotesque._ ” She raises an eyebrow, looking back and forth between them. “Stop. You’re making the rest of us look bad.” Then, she smiles again and gives Marco a wink.

Mina is okay.

Jean groans in embarrassment. “You’re so awful.”

Marco starts to laugh, and deciding to go for broke, he pulls Jean closer and puts a hand around his waist. To his surprise, instead of stiffening, Jean actually leans into him slightly.

After that, they exchange a few more pleasantries, and by the time Mina walks away to go meet a friend, Marco feels like he has cartoon birds buzzing around his head.

“Um,” Jean starts quietly. He sounds so embarrassed that Marco’s heart drops, terrified that he’s about to express regret over acknowledging Marco as anything more than a friend.

But then, to Marco’s surprise, he doesn’t say that at all.

“I’m just shy, okay?” he murmurs defensively, pulling away and shoving his hands into his pockets.

Marco blinks at him in confusion; he only gets more confused when he sees Jean biting his lip so hard it looks like he’s going to draw blood. 

“Wait,” Marco says firmly, grabbing Jean’s wrist and gently pulling his hand out of his pocket, “come here and sit down.” He leads Jean over to one of the sitting areas with a ghastly indoor fountain in front of it, and sits down next to him. “What’s wrong?”

“Well,” Jean mumbles, still staring down into his lap, “you know, the reason I didn’t do anything with Mina for four years...” he trails off, laughing humorlessly, “...isn’t because I’m gay.”

He looks up to meet Marco’s eyes, and the expression on his face is so vulnerable, Marco’s instincts are screaming at him to protect Jean.

“That’s okay,” Marco replies, rubbing Jean’s back gently. “I didn’t think that. I mean, who cares?” He smiles a little, and he’s heartened when Jean finally returns a weak smile back.

“Aren’t you wondering the reason?” Jean asks hesitantly after a moment.

Marco gives him a serious look and a slight shrug. “I don’t care, unless you want to talk about it. As long as you feel good about everything _we’ve_ done, that’s all that’s important to me.”

Jean gives him an emotional look Marco’s not expecting, and he reaches out without thinking to grasp Jean’s hand. 

“Well,” Jean starts carefully, apparently, in fact, wanting to talk about it, “the weirdest part is that there isn’t an actual ‘reason’... um...” He trails off biting his lip and staring into his lap intently. “It’s more that... I just...” He gives a frustrated sigh, but Marco waits patiently. “It just never felt right,” he finally concludes, raising his eyes to look at Marco. “It’s not that I wasn’t attracted to her.”

Marco smiles a little. “Yeah, she’s cute.”

Jean just rolls his eyes and hits Marco lightly in the shoulder.

“I don’t know,” he adds with a little shrug. “It just... never did. But... it felt right with you.”

Marco takes a deep breath, and even though he’s nervous about sounding too sentimental, decides to say it anyway. “I feel lucky, then,” he murmurs, “that you felt comfortable enough with me to do any of that.”

“Well,” Jean says, looking away again, “I really liked you.” He sneaks a look up at Marco, and Marco just smiles at him. “I still do.”

“That’s very convenient,” Marco replies after a moment, “because I think I might have to run around the house naked at this rate.”

Jean starts to laugh, and he shakes his head. Then he looks up again in embarrassment, eyeing Marco’s ruined clothing. “I’m really sorry I made you spill coffee all over yourself.” His voice is soft, but obviously sincere. “You just took me by surprise.”

“Um, a good type of surprise?” Marco ventures, trying not to hold his breath.

“Yeah,” Jean confirms quietly.

“Good,” Marco replies just as softly now, “because I think we might be here a while—as in, until it closes—and if it’s okay with you, I’d uh...” he swallows hard, but forces himself to finish, “I’d like to hold your hand. And walk around and look at weird clothing displays. Also, get a new cup of coffee.” 

“So, your family’s pretty smart, huh?”

“I’m going to need coffee for this conversation, and a lot of hand holding.”

Jean grins a little, lifting his head and looking more like his brash, cocky self. “I can do that.”

Several hours of air conditioning, hand holding, and coffee drinking later, the mall is about to close, and both of them are staring out of the double doors into the parking lot, dreading going out to face the heat.

“It’s six, so...” Jean murmurs, swallowing hard. “Maybe it’s cooled down?”

“Yeah,” Marco echoes nervously, “maybe the temperature’s dropped enough that we can...”

In mid-conversation, someone sweeps past them and out the doors, and a gust of intolerably hot, dry air blows in both their faces.

“That’s it,” Jean snaps, “fuck this. I’m buying an air conditioner.”

Normally, Marco would argue: they’re not allowed to have window units, it’s expensive, it’s a waste of money when the repairman is going to be there in a matter of a week.

Instead, he replies wearily, “I’ll go halves.” 

They install the small window unit in Marco’s room, keep the door closed, and take advantage of the wasted hundred dollars by having a lot of air conditioned sex.


	2. History In the Making

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The most important expectations aren't always the "right" ones.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge thank you to wingsofbadass for reading this through several times, giving me invaluable advice, and really just pushing me to be a much better writer. <3 You are the best.

**Fall Semester (Jean’s sophomore year, Marco’s senior year)**

It’s not the best idea to pretend you want something completely different out of life than you actually do.

No matter how many nightmares you have about your family’s disappointed looks.

No matter how many times you promise yourself that you’ll set a good example for your siblings.

No matter how Jean’s the only one who knows how many days you’ve gone without sleep, or that he was there when you broke down in tears because you couldn’t remember the year John Donne was born.

No matter how stupid you think you’re being about what started as a freshman crush.

No matter how afraid you are that he doesn’t love you back (at least, not the way that you love him).

But you—being “Marco Bodt”—know that you have to live up to your potential and fulfill expectations. 

Sometimes, though, there are things that matter more to you than expectations.

= = =

It’s one week into the semester, and Marco’s already pulled an all nighter, forgotten to turn in a library book that cost him a hefty late fee, and now he’s got an exam in a matter of hours that he’s still feeling unsure about.

The light outside the window is turning from black to a rich blue that’s quickly growing brighter, and Marco’s on his second cup of coffee, hunched over his desk as he flips through his notes for what seems like the thousandth time, fighting the urge to let his eyes slip shut.

“Marco?” comes a sleepy voice from the bed.

“Hm,” Marco hums, forcing himself not to over at Jean, since he knows the temptation to climb back into bed will overpower his resolve.

“You said you’d sleep until at least six,” Jean points out hesitantly, propping himself up on his elbow with a frown. “It’s the beginning of the semester, and you’re already burning yourself out.”

Marco lets out a growl and scowls at Jean. “You’re a sophomore,” he snaps, “you _don’t_ fucking understand.”

He immediately shuts his mouth, feeling like he’s going to cry as Jean sits up quickly and swings his legs over the edge of the bed. Marco expects him to be down the hall with a curse in a matter of a few seconds.

To Marco’s surprise, however, instead he finds Jean behind him, and then two hands land on his shoulders.

“What time is your class?” Jean asks simply, giving Marco’s shoulders a gentle squeeze.

“Ten,” Marco mutters miserably, secretly relieved that Jean’s immediate response wasn’t to just ditch him.

“It’s six a.m.” Jean reaches over Marco’s shoulder to pry the notes out of his hand and set them down gingerly on the desk. “You’re not going to get good grades on _anything_ if you’re sleep deprived.”

Marco sighs stubbornly, but he knows Jean’s right.

“Sorry I said that,” he whispers, looking down. 

Jean makes a sound of acknowledgment, but doesn’t say anything else; he just tugs at Marco’s shirt, and Marco follows Jean back into bed without complaint. Any fight to stay awake leaves him as he exhales and presses against Jean.

“Alarm...” he mumbles, “have to set... alarm...”

“I’ll wake you up at nine,” Jean says firmly. “Now, go to sleep.” He kisses Marco’s hair in a surprisingly tender gesture, and Marco sighs contentedly, letting his mind clear.

It’s slightly startling how reassured and calm he feels as he sidles up next to where Jean’s lying on his back and rests his head securely in the crook of Jean’s shoulder. The only thing he remembers as he quickly drifts off to sleep is the reassuring, faint sound of Jean’s heartbeat under his ear.

It seems like no time has passed at all as Marco wakes up again at eight-forty-five on the dot by sheer physical memory, but Jean’s already awake. 

“Hey,” he says, lying across from Marco and watching him calmly.

“Hey,” Marco yawns, fighting the urge to close his eyes again. He focuses on Jean’s face after a moment and notes the concerned look in his eyes.

After a moment, Jean grins at him a little and says, “You’re such a cranky fuck,” before pulling him close and smoothing his hand down Marco’s back.

Marco laughs into Jean’s neck where his face has ended up again, and he half-heartedly smacks Jean with two fingers against his upper arm.

They lie there unspeaking for a moment, until Marco remarks quietly, “This semester is going to be rough.”

Jean he just makes a contemplative sound in the back of his throat before brushing his palm over Marco’s shoulder blades a few times. “Yeah, I know,” he answers simply. He pauses, and Marco can tell he wants to say something else.

There’s a short silence, until Jean finally speaks. “Um, speaking of that...” he stammers. “So, I know you’re busy. Like, _really_ busy, but...”

Marco pulls away to meet Jean’s eyes. “Yeah?” he prompts. “I mean, I can carve out _some_ time. I’m not enslaved.” He grins a little, and Jean quirks a skeptical eyebrow. Marco lets out an agonized grumble. “Okay,” he admits, “maybe a little, but at least it’s by choice.”

Jean clears his throat awkwardly, and it makes Marco’s heart beat a little faster the way that Jean’s hand slides down to rest at his waist, as if it’s just natural to keep touching.

“I’m taking this class,” he says suddenly, his voice stiffly resolute and clear, as if he’s rehearsed it.

“Uh huh?” Marco asks with interest, settling in to listen until he’s forced to shower. He’s got at least fifteen minutes, though. “What is it?”

“Um,” Jean replies, biting his lip slightly, which only piques Marco’s curiosity more. “You know how I like to draw sometimes?”

Marco refrains from adding that Jean’s also pretty damn talented, knowing it would only result in embarrassed denials and the entire conversation being dropped.

“Yeah,” Marco prompts, letting Jean do the talking. 

He hesitates, and Marco waits patiently.

“I’m taking this art history survey class,” he blurts out, looking down with a slight blush, “to fulfill that gen-ed art requirement. It fit into my schedule, and... it looked kind of cool. It’s about modern art.” He shrugs a little. “Nothing fancy.” He looks at Marco suddenly, his eyes wide, and Marco’s taken off guard.

“Uh, what?” he asks, bewildered by the tense expression Jean’s suddenly wearing.

“This doesn’t mean I’m going to change my major,” he immediately declares, frowning mildly.

Marco holds up one hand innocently and shakes his head. “I know that!” he exclaims. “It was one time! Once! And I apologized.”

Jean bites his lip, but then nods. “Yeah,” he concedes, “well...”

“Jean, it was a year ago,” Marco adds, giving his current bedmate a critical look.

Jean’s eyes widen, and Marco assumes he’s about to insist on the legitimacy of his irritation; instead, though, he blurts out, “We’ve known each other for an entire year?”

Marco closes his mouth and smiles a little. “Yeah,” he confirms simply, hoping the soft expression he’s wearing doesn’t frighten Jean away.

Jean just shifts, and then returns the smile after a moment. “Seems like longer,” he comments softly.

“Yeah,” Marco agrees, before clearing his throat and letting the sentimental moment pass. “So,” he enthuses, “just spit out whatever it is you want to ask me.”

Jean’s eyes widen, and he snorts. “Who says I was going to ask you anything?”

Marco can’t resist anymore, and that earns a quick move forward to push Jean onto his back as Marco gets on top of him with an incorrigible grin. “You can’t go anywhere until you tell me.” He pins Jean’s legs under his own as Jean immediately twists, laughing despite himself.

“Get off me, you academic asshole,” Jean grunts, bucking his hips up.

Marco just grins down at him. “Not until you tell me what you were going to say,” he declares, leaning forward to take Jean even more off guard and kiss him lightly on the nose.

“Ugh, you’re such a pain,” Jean groans, but there’s a smile tugging at his stubbornly flat lips. “Fine. My professor asked me if I wanted to go to this...” he makes a pained expression, rolling his eyes with more emphasis than necessary, “this _opening_ at the university museum... you know, the one up past the quad?”

Marco does indeed know the museum because he had to take a dual-credit course there for one of his literature classes.

“Yeah,” he enthuses, nodding his head with a smile. “That’s awesome! What kind of opening is it?”

“It’s like this... art thing, about paintings,” Jean replies, immediately looking down in embarrassment and biting his lip. “Uh, do you want to go?”

“Sure!” Marco replies with a bright smile. “Actually, this week is better than any other time, because it’s only going to get worse as the semester goes on.” He cringes slightly, shrugging. “Besides,” he adds, his voice softer, “as much as I like lying around in bed with you, I miss hanging out.”

That earns a little smile out of Jean, and Marco immediately feels that familiar heavy _thump, thump, thump_ start to resound in his chest. His favorite “Jean expression” is that earnest little smile.

“Me too,” Jean agrees, and then pins Marco with a critical stare. “When was the last time you even left this bedroom to do something other than go to class?”

Marco rolls off Jean with a dramatic groan, throwing himself against the mattress with his forearm over his face. “Never,” he moans miserably. “I haven’t even brought in any pledges this year.”

Jean laughs a little, sidling up close and pulling one of Marco’s arms around him. “I think Connie, Franz, and Thomas are taking care of that. They’re really into this ‘brotherhood’ shit.”

“Don’t deny that you are, too,” Marco teases. “You haven’t called Connie a ‘basic bitch’ in at least a month.”

Jean grumbles, but doesn’t refute that observation.

“Besides,” Marco adds, tensing his arm in the imitation of a hug, “I would’ve never met you if it wasn’t for ‘brotherhood.’”

“Ew,” Jean immediately retorts, kicking Marco lightly in the shin, “that’s gross. Take your creepy Greek mythology incest boner somewhere else.”

Marco just laughs, kicking back at Jean playfully. “I didn’t mean _like that_ , you sicko,” he counters, grinning despite himself. “You know you’re my best friend, right?

To his surprise, he feels Jean immediately stiffen. There are a few beats of silence, and then Jean slowly pulls away, his face unexpectedly vulnerable. “Really?” he asks softly, his eyebrows raised plaintively.

Marco just stares at him in disbelief; but then, it occurs to him that there’s no reason Jean would just assume that’s the case.

“Yeah,” he confirms with a decisive nod. “There’s a reason I spend almost all my free time with you.” And then, with a completely straight face, adds, “You know your dick isn’t actually that interesting, right?”

Jean’s mouth opens comedically, and then closes; and then, he tackles Marco much in the same way Marco had tackled him before, and gets on top, grinning maniacally.

“Those are fighting words, Bodt,” he growls, bending forward to kiss at Marco’s ear. But then he stays there, letting his body relax against Marco and not holding him in place with the same strength. “But...” he says softly, his voice serious again, “really?”

Marco wraps his arms around Jean tightly. “Really,” he replies simply.

They lie like that together for a while, until finally, Jean speaks up again. “So, you want to go? It’s this Friday.”

Marco draws back to look at him and smile. “Yeah, that’s perfect. Do I have to dress up?”

Jean’s eyes widen, and he suddenly looks mortified. “Shit, I should’ve asked that...” he says, trailing off and cringing. Then, he sets his jaw and shrugs, though. “Whatever—I’m a broke student. What do they expect?”

“I could wear those sexy tangerine capris you like so much.” Marco just stares at him with a cheeky grin, and Jean stares back with wide eyes.

Then, there’s a glance at the clock and a smug snort. Jean shifts and grins right back. “You can wear them to that class you’re about to be late for.”

“Shit!”

There’s a fumble and a thud as Marco’s feet hit the floor, and Jean is still laughing as he curls back up in Marco’s bed smugly to fall back asleep.

= = =

Marco looks forward to Friday with a mounting excitement akin to a child with an advent calendar, counting down the days until Christmas morning. 

The last time he can remember socializing without school weighing on him was during the summer, and even then, he still had class nagging at the back of his mind. The truth is that he hasn’t taken a real break for longer than is healthy. He’s aware of it, but at this point, there’s no option except to power through his senior year. 

But in the meantime, he can barely contain his excitement as he sits on the edge of Jean’s bed, watching in mild amusement as Jean throws yet another pair of rejected pants onto Connie’s bed in frustration.

He’s nervous, that much is clear. He’s chewing his lip and rifling around his closet, practically panicked about what to wear for the evening.

“I don’t know if it’s supposed to be formal,” he says, looking over his shoulder at Marco with a cringe where he’s standing in front of the closet, wearing only a pair of boxer-briefs.

“I thought you said you didn’t care,” Marco remarks without irony, shrugging a little. “It’s not like you’re going on a job interview.”

“Actually, I kind of am,” Jean blurts out abruptly, turning to look at Marco head on. “Um, I might be applying for an internship.”

“Really?” Marco exclaims, eyes wide. “I thought you wanted to stick with business?”

“I do,” Jean retorts immediately, his chest expanding with a silent sigh. “But... I think I might be interested in going into something to do with... art?” He rolls his eyes in exasperation and gives a sharp shrug. “I have no idea.”

He gives stops in his clothing search momentarily and wrings his hands. “I thought about what you said,” he says after a few beats of silence, meeting Marco’s eyes. “About not wanting to be miserable every day.”

Marco raises an eyebrow in surprise, and then smiles weakly. “I didn’t mean--”

“No, I know,” Jean interjects, waving Marco’s explanation away dismissively. He shifts his stance slightly, and Marco can’t help but lick his lips almost unconsciously as his eyes are drawn down to Jean’s hips.

“You’re a perv,” Jean states wryly with poorly contained amusement.

“Sorry!” Marco exclaims, trying not to laugh as he looks up to meet Jean’s eyes again. “But...” he trails off, cocking his head to the side slightly, “what do you mean, then?”

Jean lets out a long breath, and Marco can tell he’s about to say something he probably hasn’t told anyone else.

“Well,” he starts carefully, turning back around to slowly slide a hanger or two down the closet rod, “yeah, it would suck to be miserable, even if you were making a lot of money.” He shrugs a little, still not looking back at Marco. “So, I thought it might be cool to... I don’t know, do something I like, _and_ with making lots of money.”

Marco smiles a little, his lips quirking up, before deadpanning, “So, you want to make a lot of money doing something you like. Is that it?”

Jean immediately whirls around with an irritated expression, but once he meets Marco’s eyes, he groans and covers his face with a hand. “You’re a jerk,” he says, voice muffled.

“I’m just kidding,” Marco says more sympathetically, before standing up and coming to stand in front of Jean. “I think it’s great that you’re trying to figure that out,” he comments, reaching out to rest his hand on Jean’s shoulder. 

Jean studies him for a moment, obviously evaluating his motives in a very Jean-like fashion, and then finally nods.

“So, what’s the internship?” Marco asks curiously, taking a few steps back to reclaim his position on Jean’s bed.

“Well, it’s for...” Jean struggles, trying to come up with a description as he pulls out another hanger to look at the pants critically. “The business side of art?”

“You mean like selling art?”

Jean snorts derisively, but he doesn’t immediately say no. He pulls the neatly folded pants off the hanger, holding them up to himself. He turns to look at Marco with a raised eyebrow. “Why are you interrogating me?” he demands.

Marco holds both hands up innocently, his eyes wide. “I’m not!”

“You are too!”

“Those pants are nice.”

“What do _you_ want to do with your degree?” Jean throws out with a smirk, a challenging expression on his face.

Marco huffs and flips Jean off, but then drops his hand. “Fine,” he concedes, “point taken.”

Jean squints and sticks out his tongue, which earns a laugh out of Marco at the sheer ridiculousness of the interaction.

After a moment, Jean rolls his eyes and throws the pants he’s holding onto his bed, following them to sit down next to Marco.

“What the hell am I going to wear? I don’t even like clothes.”

Marco laughs and slings an arm around Jean’s bare shoulders. He’s freshly showered and smells good, but Marco resists the urge to lean in and kiss his neck; there are other pressing matters to attend to.

“Well,” Marco says, patting Jean on the back before drawing away, “do you have any plain slacks?”

Jean blinks at him, and then turns his eyes toward the closet again. “Well,” he hazards, thinking hard with an unwavering stare, “I have one suit pants my mom made me bring...”

“Great,” Marco nods. “So, wear those pants, and then let’s go, or else we’re going to be late.” He quirks his eyebrow judgmentally. “Showing up late will make you look worse than wearing ripped jeans.”

Jean sighs, and then gives a decisive nod. “Yeah, you’re right,” he agrees.

As he pulls on the dark blue dress pants, Marco very pointedly does not stare at how good Jean’s ass looks in the perfectly tailored pants.

“Are those tailored or something?” he asks. “They fit really well.”

“Oh,” Jean says bashfully, immediately looking embarrassed, “uh, yeah, sort of. They were a high school graduation present.”

“From your mom?” Marco guesses, not intending it to come out as a joke. He knows how close Jean is with his mother and how important their relationship is to Jean. Marco hasn’t encountered anyone else of whom Jean is so fiercely protective.

This time, when Jean flips Marco off and mumbles to “stop asking stupid fucking questions since we’re going to be late,” Marco catches his hand and grins.

“They look good on you.”

That gets a hard swallow, followed by a slight blush, and then an awkward, “Thanks.”

And then they set off, Jean’s battle to remain outward confident practically palpable. “I’m gonna kick ass,” he finally proclaims with a boastful (somewhat convincing) grin.

Marco just smiles encouragingly with a nod.

= = =

“People are staring at me,” Jean hisses at Marco as they stand off to the side of the museum, sipping wine from small, plastic cups that they’re only both just legal to drink.

“They probably think you’re trying to steal the wine for a keg party,” Marco deadpans, “since you’re obviously a trouble maker.” 

Jean snorts and kicks Marco’s foot discretely, and Marco laughs under his breath.

It hasn’t been ten minutes since they arrived, and Jean has already relegated himself to the corner, false bravado completely lost as he looks around nervously.

They just stand there in silence, and Marco looks over at Jean curiously. “Uh,” he starts, not knowing what to say and unused to seeing Jean so outwardly nervous, “why don’t you say hello to your professor?”

Jean swallows hard, and nods curtly, darting a cautious look around. “I don’t see him yet.”

Marco nods, still staring. “Well,” he starts again, trying to think of a way to get Jean to relax, “you want to look at some art?”

That captures Jean’s attention, and he turns to face Marco more directly and nods, the tension at the corners of his mouth relaxing slightly.

“Um, okay...” he hazards, turning toward a series of small paintings on the wall, mostly abstract with bright colors. Marco turns his head sideways, frowning in befuddlement.

“Um,” he says, leaning forward to get a little closer, “what are these anyway? Are you supposed to see things in them?”

He’s startled as he hears Jean laughing behind him, and then whirls around with a look of teasing outrage. “Who’s the snob now?” he demands, grinning a little at Jean with a raised eyebrow.

“It’s abstract art,” Jean says with a slight shrug, still smiling. “You just... make it. I don’t know...” he says, looking over Marco’s shoulder with a thoughtful expression, “I kind of like them.”

Marco’s not expecting that. Jean seems like the exact type of person who’d go into a museum and roll his eyes openly at abstract art or anything else that wasn’t obvious in its subject matter.

On the other hand, Marco himself isn’t a big fan of abstract art.

“Why? Do you not like them?” Jean asks, walking up next to Marco with a slight smile in his voice. “Marco Bodt, literary genius, doesn’t like something artistic?”

Marco snorts and rolls his eyes at Jean, looking for his shoulder for onlookers, before elbowing Jean in the ribs.

“Well, then explain it to me.”

He’s not expecting Jean to take him up on the offer. There’s nothing Jean hates more than not being able to show someone up when the opportunity arises, and although Marco is teasing, he knows Jean won’t do it unless he feels like he can really win.

Which is why it comes as a huge surprise when Jean immediately launches into what the paintings are all about.

“That’s why,” he says, pointing at a small patch of green in one of them, “there are fingerprints in there. Because these guys liked to smear stuff all over the canvas. Weird, but kind of cool.”

“Wow,” Marco says, blatantly impressed, “so I guess you’re better at so-called ‘academic’ stuff than I am.”

Jean snorts and rolls his eyes, draining the last of the wine from the small cup. “No,” he replies tartly, “painting makes sense. There’s no right or wrong--you just do it.”

“If you have the right type of instincts, that is,” Marco immediately replies, a few things clicking into place. He raises an eyebrow, venturing a guess. “I bet you’re not a big fan of art history itself.”

Jean shakes his head, looking a little guilty. “Not really, even though I like the class.”

“You’d rather make it up on the spot,” Marco guesses.

Jean eyes him carefully, studying him for a few seconds, before admitting Marco’s right. “Sort of,” he confirms with a shrug.

“Which is why you’re good at it,” Marco concludes with a nod, finishing his own wine at the same time. He can tell from the expression on Jean’s face that initially he takes the observation as an insult, but then reevaluates just as quickly; probably because of who the statement is coming from.

Jean surprises Marco, though, when he replies rather insightfully, “Not everything is about idealistic bullshit.” He pokes Marco in the shoulder with a playful snort. “No matter how many fantasies you have about giving Shakespeare’s corpse a--”

“Jean,” says a pleasant, even voice, “you were able to attend.”

Jean immediately straightens up and squares his shoulders as they both turn to meet the eyes of a tall blond man Marco recognizes.

“Marco,” he adds with a nod, acknowledging Marco’s presence.

Dr. Erwin Smith, department head of Art History. Marco’s dual-credit course had been taught in part by him—a brilliant man with a brilliant mind, if not somewhat unsettling since he’s virtually unreadable.

“Hello, Dr. Smith,” Marco replies respectfully with a small, polite smile.

“Have you had a chance to speak with my colleague I told you about, who’s also the museum Director?”

Jean swallows hard, but Marco’s proud of him when he doesn’t flinch and just keeps his eyes confidently forward. “Not yet,” he replies simply.

“Levi,” Erwin says suddenly, his hand shooting out unexpectedly to land on someone’s shoulder, as if he already knew the person in question would be passing, “this is Jean, the one I told you about.”

A shorter man with an expression Marco can’t decide is foreboding, reserved, or disgusted--or possibly all three--assesses Jean with a simple sweep of his dark eyes.

He’s wearing an immaculately tailored suit and reminds Marco almost unsettlingly of a cat who knows he’s gotten all the cream, even though he didn’t want it in the first place.

When he looks over at Erwin, they exchange some unspoken acknowledgment, and then Erwin turns away.

“Mr. Kirschstein,” Levi greets Jean, holding out his hand, “Dr. Smith informs me that you’re eager to learn our trade.”

“Uh,” Jean stammers, almost biting his tongue as he shakes Levi’s hand, “sort of. I mean, yes. I’m interested in an internship.” 

Marco waits, and then there’s a painfully long moment as Jean just continues to shake Levi’s hand, not letting go, as Levi casts his eyes toward Marco, waiting for an introduction.

“And,” Marco jumps in cheerfully, clapping Jean on the shoulder to get him to snap out of the awkwardly lengthy handshake, “I’m Marco Bodt, Jean’s fraternity brother.”

Levi makes an expression of disgust. “Fraternities. Were it up to me, they’d be banned on this campus, though Erwin seems to have some strange, grudging respect for them.”

“Um,” Marco says uncertainly, unnerved by Levi’s bluntness, “okay. Well, I’ll leave you guys alone and go look at some art.” He gives a nod, and then smiles reassuringly at Jean.

Jean appears to be somewhat heartened by the expression, and some of the jittery, nervous energy clinging to him seems to dissipate.

Marco occupies himself with another glass of wine and a stroll around the gallery, shooting curious, discreet glances over at the corner where Jean is chatting with Levi, and soon there are a few other people gathered around as well.

Jean spends a lot of his time attempting to look confident, even when he’s not—whether while talking to new people, trying to hide what he’s thinking, answering a tough question in class, or being in almost any situation where he doesn’t have his footing.

But now, all of his nerves have completely disappeared, and he’s talking to the small group of people surrounding him animatedly. He’s even raised a few eyebrows, and Marco would assume, probably said something offensive, but still tolerable enough that he hasn’t been rejected from the conversation.

Without Jean present, though, Marco’s forced to entertain himself for a little while.

It’s not that Marco doesn’t like visual art. He’s a literature major, which is also a type of art, but he prefers the written word because there are somewhat more clearly defined rules—parameters for what’s “good” or “bad.” He concedes the universal point that beauty is often in the eye of the beholder, but there are certain principles about how to form a good sentence, rules about proper grammar and spelling. It strikes him as being more structured than visual art.

He stops to stare at a drawing in confusion. It’s literally a pencil line drawn down the center of what appears to be vellum. It’s elaborately framed and large in scale, and there’s a little label next to it that reads: “Line VI”

Marco turns his head to the side, hoping it might make more sense that way; it doesn’t.

“That one’s interesting,” a sudden voice remarks behind him.

Marco jumps, whirling around to see who’s snuck up on him with wide eyes.

“Whoa, sorry!” Armin exclaims, holding his hands up and taking two steps back, looking apologetic. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

Marco makes a sheepish face, rubbing the back of his head and laughing a little. “You’re really quiet.”

That earns an amused smile out of Armin, and he shrugs his shoulders. “Walk softly and carry a big stick, right?”

“As long as you’re not planning on hitting me with it,” Marco quips, raising an eyebrow, “yeah, that’s usually a pretty good philosophy.”

Armin studies him for a moment, his eyes darting from Marco to the art he’d been looking at, and then back to Marco, as if assessing what had just been transpiring.

“You don’t like it,” Armin guesses, gesturing at the mysteriously titled (or not so mysterious) “Line VI.”

“Uh,” Marco says awkwardly, not wanting to offend anyone as he turns back around to study the drawing, “well... I wouldn’t say that.”

Armin laughs under his breath, coming to stand next to Marco and adjusting the glasses perched on his nose. Marco didn’t even know Armin wore glasses.

“I didn’t know you wore glasses,” Marco remarks, turning to study Armin in interest as he bends over slightly to look more closely at the artwork.

“Oh, usually I don’t,” Armin says with a friendly smile, meeting Marco’s eyes as he straightens up again. “I have contacts, but I’ve been here all day.” He darts a surreptitious look around, before giving Marco a long suffering look and yawning discreetly behind his hand. Marco’s eyebrows raise. 

Armin snorts a little and scrunches up his face. “I’m Erwin’s assistant,” he explains, shooting another glance around as if afraid of being caught complaining about his superior. “I graduated this past spring.”

“Oh, you graduated a semester early?” Marco asks in surprise. He had no idea Armin was no longer a student, since they saw each other regularly around campus. In fact, Marco and Armin met in their freshman year when Marco was still pretending he wasn’t homesick and Armin was afraid to talk in class. They’ve always been friendly, though not particularly close.

“Technically, yeah,” Armin nods. “But Erwin told me he wanted to hire me a semester ago, and especially if I could finish early. So I did.” He shrugs a little. “I don’t know what I’ve got that’s so special, but I said yes.” He hesitates, studying Marco quietly for a moment, but apparently decides to finish his thought. “Um,” he says awkwardly, squaring his shoulders, “I don’t really have anything to go back to. My hometown is almost abandoned at this point since the economy crashed, and I came here on a full ride scholarship.” He shrugs a little.

“Oh, sorry,” Marco replies softly, trying not to cringe.

“It’s okay,” Armin says with a shrug and a little smile.

He regards Marco carefully with those bright blue eyes, and although his expression is kind and open, Marco can’t help but feel like he’s being studied under a microscope.

“Erwin’s a pretty hard taskmaster, huh?” he asks, trying to change the subject. 

Armin nods a little, but then shrugs again. “He thinks I’m smart,” he says simply, then drops the subject, too. “So,” he says conspiratorially, “I can’t figure out whether this artist is a genius or a practical joker.”

That gets a loud laugh out of Marco, and he rolls his eyes. “Okay,” he admits, his voice quiet, “I don’t like it. It doesn’t make any sense.”

“Yeah, art takes a lot of intuition,” Armin remarks, taking a few steps forward to study the drawing more closely. Intriguingly, he picks up almost the same trail of thought that Jean had left off at before being swept away. “I’d say” he continues thoughtfully, “the difference between a mediocre artist and a great artist, is that you can’t predict the great ones.” He looks completely self-assured, and Marco listens in fascination.

“So,” Marco asks, grappling with the concept, “the great artists are all off the wall?”

Armin laughs and shrugs. “Maybe not that exactly,” he amends. “More like... watch out for the ones you can’t predict, but hold tight, too. You’ll at least have a few good stories.”

“Jean’s kind of like that,” Marco says out. His face immediately heats as Armin looks at him in surprise, but then, he nods.

“Yeah, Jean’s a perfect example from what I know about him,” he agrees. “Although I’ve never seen his art, so...”

“He’s really good at—”

“What the hell is that?” Jean’s voice interjects sharply.

They both turn in surprise just as Marco’s mouth snaps shut, not wanting to be caught talking about Jean in his absence.

Marco can see Armin fighting down a smile with a spastic twitch of his lips as Jean strides over to look at “Line VI,” peering at it for a long moment, before turning back around to look at Marco and Armin incredulously.

“It looks like it was done with a fucking machine or something,” he says, looking outraged. “I mean...”

“It was, actually,” Armin confirms calmly, but then laughs a little. “That’s what the series is actually about—mechanical drawings that the artist made using a computer.”

Marco’s eyes widen as he looks at Jean—who has, apparently, has regained quite a bit of self confidence—and blinks in surprise.

Jean immediately folds his arms haughtily and sticks his chin out; Marco fights the urge to roll his eyes.

“So, are you doing the internship?” Armin asks.

Jean immediately founders, and Marco fights the urge to laugh. Although Jean can read the artwork surprisingly well, Armin apparently has the ability to read Jean like a book. And, Marco would hazard to guess, probably almost everyone else.

“Oh, I uh...” Jean stammers, dropping his arms to his sides, “well, Levi gave me an application. It’s just to help out cutting mat board and stuff like that.”

“Good way to learn the business,” Armin says with a nod.

Jean doesn’t argue and looks thoughtful. “Yeah,” he agrees after a moment, “well, we’ll see.”

“Well, this was fun,” Marco says, slipping his phone out to look at the time, “but I should probably get going soon. I’ve got some studying to do before I go to bed.”

“It was nice talking to you, Marco,” Armin nods with a smile. “And good luck with your application, Jean,” he says, giving Jean a polite pat on the shoulder.

And then, just like that, he’s gone. 

“You know,” Jean says in a low, conspiratorial voice, getting close to Marco, “they keep saying he’s Erwin’s long lost son.”

Marco laughs a little, turning his head to reply into Jean’s ear just as conspiratorially, “And apparently, according to Armin’s definition, you’re a great artist.”

Jean immediately takes two steps back and makes an embarrassed noise in his throat, before scowling at Marco who just returns the gaze with a pleasant, placid expression.

“So,” he says, taking a few steps away from the strange drawings to set his empty glass down on a table, “are you going to explain these paintings to me?”

To his surprise, Jean doesn’t need any convincing, and the irritated look vanishes as he pulls Marco in the direction of the same paintings they’d initially been discussing.

Within half an hour, Marco realizes that trying to keep up with Jean in terms of “good” and “bad” art is rather hopeless, so he just opts to listen.

“And I don’t know why you’d paint that weird blue thing in the center,” he says, pointing at a large abstract painting on the wall, “but it just works, you know?”

“Uh,” Marco says awkwardly, “I guess. I mean, in terms of composition...”

“Fuck composition,” Jean retorts immediately. Then, he looks slightly sly as he turns to grin at Marco. “You don’t like things without rules, do you?”

Marco frowns at him and sets his jaw. “The world would cease to function without rules.”

To his surprise, though, Jean’s face softens and he reaches out to pat Marco’s shoulder. “You know,” he says, his voice unusually thoughtful, “not a lot of people really think that way.”

Marco blinks at him in surprise. “Um,” he replies uncertainly, hesitating, “okay.”

Jean laughs a little, dropping his hand. The intensity that appears in his expression as he studies Marco’s face is almost unnerving. “What do you want to do with your degree?” he laughs softly, pushing his hands into his pockets. “Change the world?”

“Maybe,” Marco grumbles. 

The truth is that Jean just hit on a very sore spot without meaning to, and Marco wants to stop talking about it.

Jean’s voice is playful as he continues, “I remember what you said about the arts being life changing, and—”

Marco feels almost bad as he cuts Jean off. He knows there’s no ill intent, and Jean just thinks he’s teasing, the way they banter with each other constantly. But it’s not quite the same.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Marco interjects abruptly, taking a few steps away from Jean and turning away.

He can practically feel the shock radiating from behind him; he’s not sure what to expect, but the last thing is a hand on his shoulder.

“Sorry,” Jean says simply.

Marco waits for the onslaught of awkward apology intermingled with defensiveness, but none comes. Jean just stands there, his hand heavy on Marco’s shoulder, and waits.

Finally, Marco slowly turns around, swallowing hard. “I’m sorry, too,” he says softly, biting his lip, “um... it’s just...”

“I get it,” Jean replies with a serious nod. 

“Because it’s sort of a real question now,” Marco murmurs, feeling silly for being so overly sensitive about the future. “I’m going to graduate in less than a year.”

For some reason, it’s not the sharp retort that elicits that tense look from Jean, but the reminder that Marco’s graduation is imminent.

He sighs softly to himself, but then he offers up a grin. “Enough art,” he says, raising an eyebrow. “I want pizza.”

That gets a smile out of Marco, and he laughs a little. “Pizza’s way better than art or literature.”

“Unless you count eating Shakespeare’s corpse’s—”

Jean is cut off with a squeak as Marco seizes his hand and bodily pulls him toward an emergency exit, and the startled noise promptly turns into laughter as they tumble out the backdoor together. It leads to a parking lot, and they eventually find their way back to the front until they’re standing back at the entrance that they had originally come through. 

Jean’s grin is visible even in the evening dusk which is quickly turning into night. “Race you, ” he says simply, before taking off in a run and calling back over his shoulder, “Last one back pays for pizza!”

Marco is glad that he has long legs and five years of running track under his belt, since he’s pretty broke at the moment.

A few minutes of sprinting later, he overtakes Jean about fifty meters from the house, which earns a hoarse, winded cry of, “No fair!”

Marco is laughing, doubled over and trying to catch his breath as Jean’s feet pound up the porch steps to the frat house a few mere seconds later.

“That was _so_ not fair,” Jean grumbles in a winded voice, poking Marco in the shoulder.

“You’re just pissed you have to pay for pizza,” he retorts, still laughing. He finally straightens himself, his heart rate gradually going back to normal.

“I forgot you ran track,” Jean complains, straightening up too to fix Marco with a glare. “You cheated.”

“Tough,” Marco fires back, grinning ear to ear. “Here,” he says, slipping his phone out of his pocket and holding it out to Jean, “pizza place is in my contacts. You call.”

And with that, he saunters into the house victoriously to retrieve a glass of water.

A little bit later, Jean is much happier as he chews on a slice of pizza and watches Marco consume his second piece.

“Whah?” Marco asks with wide eyes around a mouthful of pizza, “I didn’t eat dinner.”

Jean makes a face and rolls his eyes. “Good thing you’re eating on my dime, then.”

Marco swallows and starts to laugh again, leaning over the counter where they’ve opted to stand and eat the pizza to swat Jean on the shoulder.

“Sore loser,” he says simply, before reaching for another piece of pizza.

“One day,” Jean declares, pointing at Marco with narrowed eyes, “I’m going to challenge you to something that I’m good at.”

“Like what?” Marco asks curiously, genuinely intrigued by this threat.

“Like... art.”

Marco snorts. “I bet I could beat you at art if I knew the rules,” he retorts, saying it solely for the sake of contradicting Jean and continuing this little game of ridiculous banter that he enjoys almost more than any other activity.

Jean smirks at him, looking triumphant. “There. I win.”

“How do you win?!” Marco demands without vitriol, more focused on his pizza.

“Because there aren’t any rules,” Jean declares with a confident nod of his head. “And you just lost by saying there are.”

“Total cheater,” Marco mumbles, trying not to laugh.

“Total sore loser,” Jean retorts placidly, shooting a grin Marco’s way.

They finish their pizza is silence, simply enjoying each other’s company. The house is quiet for once, everyone either asleep or out on campus, and Marco realizes he hasn’t felt this relaxed since the last time he went home for break.

“Well,” he finally says with a yawn once there’s only one slice left, stretching his arms above his head, “I think I’m going to study for a little while...”

Jean rolls his eyes, but offers a good-natured smile. “I’m going to bed—got a nine a.m. class tomorrow.”

They both look at each other for a moment, and Marco offers Jean a warm expression. “Thanks for inviting me,” he says, tilting his head to the side. “That was really fun. I haven’t been out to socialize,” he snorts, laughing wryly, “like an actual _human_ in a while.”

Jean grins and crosses his arms. “And you were so nervous you wouldn’t fit in.”

Marco refrains from reminding Jean that he wasn’t the nervous one; instead, he just rolls his eyes in over-exaggerated suffering. “Well, either way, it was fun.”

He elbows past Jean and gives him a playful shove to back up his eye-roll, but Jean catches his shoulder. “Hey,” he says more softly, “wait.”

“Hm?” Marco hums, waiting.

Jean squeezes his shoulder gently, before withdrawing his hand and asking simply, “You want me to bring you a coffee?”

Marco blinks at him, and Jean just waits with an expectant expression. 

After a few moments, Marco replies, “Uh, sure.” He wasn’t expecting the gesture.

Jean smiles at him and nods. “I know you have work to do.” The smile turns softer and more shy as he mumbles, “And I know you had a lot to do before we even left tonight, so, uh...” He takes a few steps away in the direction of the kitchen. “Thanks for being such a good friend.” The words are quiet, but sincere, and then he abruptly turns away and retreats toward the coffee maker at the other end of the kitchen, as if he’s exceeded his sentimentality limit for the day.

Marco just stares in surprise at his retreating back, but then after a moment, he becomes thoughtful about the entire situation—of “them”—that elusive term that Marco had originally been embarrassed about even uttering that first time they made out.

Sure, he notices how good Jean’s ass looks in those tailored pants, and he feels a little swell of intermingled desire and affection when he studies Jean’s shoulders—the entire outline of his body, all wiry muscle and graceful limbs.

But he also thinks about what a good time he had tonight. If for some reason they never had sex again, Marco would definitely miss it, but the worst thing he can imagine is not having Jean in his life.

Marco loves Jean in ways he never even knew existed.

As he’s making his way through the common area and toward the stairs to head to his bedroom, Jean calls from the kitchen, “You want the dark roast, right?”

For some reason Marco can’t fully explain, his throat tightens.

“Yeah,” he calls back softly. “Thanks.”

He makes his way slowly toward his room, deeply entrenched in thought as he swings open the door and turns on the light.

The room looks the same way it always does—laundry hamper half-full, an army of highlighters scattered across the narrow college-issue desk, the closed laptop that used to belong to his sister, and a pile of books that dwarf the tallest skyscraper in Sina.

But then Marco also notices an empty paper coffee cup with Jean’s name scrawled messily across the side, a textbook about business models next to the mountain of Marco’s inter-library loan books, and the extra blanket at the end of his bed he knows Jean’s mother knitted, left behind from one night Jean kept complaining that Marco was “the worst fucking blanket hog in existence.” Next, his eyes fall on the small personal coffee maker—his birthday present from the year before—stowed neatly in the corner of his desk, well cared for and lovingly used.

He jumps as there’s a sudden knock on the door, and then Jean’s head pokes around the corner as it opens a crack.

“Uh, don’t attack me,” he says hesitantly. “I brought coffee,” he says, drawing out the word “coffee” like some sort of ceremonial chant that will protect him from Marco’s wrath of being interrupted.

Marco chuckles and walks over to open the door fully, smiling warmly as Jean stands there with the steaming cup of coffee. Then, Marco studies him silently.

“What?” Jean asks, cocking his head to the side, immediately donning a suspicious look. “Do I have something on my face?” He immediately scrubs his free hand over his face, looking perturbed. “Are you seriously saying I’ve been walking around with—”

“Oh my god, you never shut up,” Marco interjects with a huge grin, pulling Jean into a tight hug.

He gets a surprised squeak for his efforts and a muttered curse as Jean painstakingly keeps the coffee cup stable and its contents from sloshing around.

“Um, Marco,” Jean asks carefully, though he hasn’t tried to extract himself from Marco’s arms, “are you okay?”

Marco hangs on for a few more beats, and then finally lets go, stepping back and taking the coffee from Jean’s hand.

“Everything’s good,” he says softly, memorizing the lines of Jean’s face, “everything’s awesome.”

Jean snorts, but he smiles a little. “You’re so weird.”

“You’re a pain in the ass.”

“Good night,” Jean says, and then sticks out his tongue.

“Good night,” Marco retorts, and flips Jean off.

“Uh, guys,” comes a sleepy voice from the other end of the hallway that Marco recognizes as Connie, “no offense, but people are trying to sleep...”

“Sorry!” Marco whispers, waiting until the door clicks shut again.

When he looks back at Jean, they both just stare at each other, before dissolving into ridiculous giggles.

“You’re a horrible influence,” Jean whispers, poking Marco in the shoulder. “You’re going to corrupt me.”

Marco starts to laugh even harder, desperately trying to silence the noise with his hand. “Yeah, right,” he snorts with a grin, “that’s exactly what’s going to happen.”

They stand there for a few more minutes, getting themselves under control, until Jean suddenly sobers and reaches out to rest his hand against Marco’s shoulder.

“Marco?” he says softly, his eyes serious.

Marco immediately gives Jean his full attention, looking at Jean in solemn concern. “Yeah?”

Jean bites his lip as he says softly, “Thanks for coming with me.”

There’s something about the way he says it that goes beyond a casual thank you, though, and Marco meets his eyes. 

“I’ll always be there if you need me,” he answers with a little smile , reaching out to touch Jean’s shoulder in return.

Jean’s eyes widen, and then he immediately blushes and ducks his head, turning away. “Go to bed before three a.m., okay?” he grunts, before retreating down the dark hallway, shoulders hunched, but Marco can see his small smile as he turns to disappear into his and Connie’s shared room.

= = =

Marco regrets overloading on credits to ensure he’ll graduate on time, because he knows his parents would never approve of him needing an extra semester to finish. He’d arranged his course load wrong thanks to the advice of a faulty advisor who’s no longer employed at the school and shot himself in the foot.

The only person he’s told is his sister, and even though she advised him to just be honest with their parents, he hasn’t.

The only other person who knows the full extent of how badly he’s running himself ragged is Jean.

Besides that, the semester has progressed uneventfully for once, and he’s mostly had his nose to the grindstone, trying not to get distracted. It’s hard, though, when all he wishes he could do during his last year of college is to spend time with friends—hang out in the frat house and laugh about stupid things—and then end the day in his bed between Jean’s legs, coaxing those sweet uninhibited moans that Marco loves before falling asleep with him.

Friends, laughter, and sex—Marco’s ideal existence at this point. 

An ideal that’s also completely impossible with the course load Marco’s forced upon himself. However, the thing that keeps him going is the belief that if he can just hold out until the end of the semester without losing his mind, he’ll be able to indulge in at least some of those things over the break.

Of all the things to trip him up in his desperate bid to reach the end of the semester without incident, Marco figured it would be getting too little sleep or failing an exam; he’s not expecting it to be an offhand remark over breakfast one morning about an idea that seemed relatively harmless.

“I think we need to take a break for the last few weeks before winter break starts,” Marco declares as he pours instant oatmeal into a dish, looking over his shoulder at Jean who’s sitting at the counter, sleepily chewing the fancy cereal his mother had sent in the latest care package.

The spoon Jean’s eating with clatters into the bowl noisily, and Marco turns in surprise.

“Are you okay?” he asks with wide eyes, faced with a stricken expression he’s not expecting.

Jean opens his mouth and then closes it just as quickly, scowling and dropping his eyes to stare down into his bowl. His picks up the spoon again in a white-knuckled grip and just gives a tense shrug.

“Whatever,” he retorts. Marco can tell he’s fighting the instinct to run away, but he stubbornly just sits there.

“That came out totally wrong,” Marco blurts, feeling regret wash over him. “I’m really sorry. Oh god, I just meant... you’re...” He sighs in frustration. Normally, he’s good at communicating with Jean, having spent some time learning what sets Jean off, but he’s under so much pressure that he can’t even think straight.

That, and Jean makes him think the opposite of straight altogether.

Jean just shrugs again, looking dejected.

Marco sighs, setting down the oatmeal and rounding the counter to stand behind Jean, wrapping two hands around his waist and pressing close.

“I just meant,” he says softly, darting a glance behind them to make sure no one is around, “if I don’t make a commitment now to keep my hands off of you, I won’t finish this semester intact.” He gives a soft, wry laugh, and then presses a kiss against the back of Jean’s neck, breathing in deeply. There’s something about Jean when he first wakes up that always makes Marco feel relaxed. It’s clean laundry, warm fabric, the vague smell of his aftershave, and just Jean.

That gets a surprised little gasp, and Jean slowly turns his head to look at Marco skeptically.

“Sorry,” Marco adds, biting his lip. “Everything I say just comes out wrong these days.”

To his surprise, though, Jean’s face softens and he nods. “I know,” he replies, offering up a little smile. “I thought you meant...” He shakes his head. “I get it.”

And then, Marco has absolutely no idea what to do as Jean stands up and directs Marco to sit down on the stool where he’d been.

“Sit,” he says firmly, pointing at the seat.

Completely baffled, Marco simply does as asked, staring at Jean expectantly. Jean grins at him a little before seizing his bowl to finish the oatmeal in two bites, placing the bowl in the sink, and then pulling out one of the only frying pans that exist in the entire house from the cupboard.

“Good thing for you,” he says, pointing a finger at Marco, “that Connie bought eggs.”

“Jean...” Marco murmurs in disbelief, hesitant to believe that what he thinks is happening is actually happening.

“Yup,” Jean declares, retrieving the eggs from the refrigerator, “I’m making you breakfast. Like a fucking bad rom-com.”

“How do you know anything about romantic comedies?” Marco teases, hoping the emotion in his voice isn’t obvious. He feels so overwhelmed suddenly that he can barely breathe; but it’s a good kind of overwhelmed.

Jean snorts and rolls his eyes. “The entire first season of Doctor Who was a rom-com.”

“Jean, that was just the re-boot. The real first season aired in—”

“Keep talking about Doctor Who factoids from the sixties,” Jean interjects, cracking one of the eggs into a mixing bowl he’s gotten down from another cupboard, “and I’ll change your Netflix password so you can’t ever watch it again.”

“You don’t know my Netflix password,” Marco challenges.

“Wanna bet?”

“No,” he concedes dejectedly, sticking out his bottom lip. Then, he grins mischievously at Jean’s back. “I’ll change your computer password.”

“You’re bluffing,” Jean retorts immediately, sounding completely unworried.

“It’s ‘rosetylerismygirlfriend,’ hypocrite.”

The whisk Jean’s been beating the eggs with pauses momentarily, and he grunts before starting again. “Jerk.”

Marco laughs under his breath, before throwing a balled up napkin at Jean’s back; it’s immediately catapulted back at Marco, and hits him square in the forehead before falling to the floor.

“Over easy?”

“Yes, please,” Marco replies in a pouty, childish voice.

Within ten minutes, Marco has forgotten Jean’s threat as he stares with wide eyes and a rumbling stomach at the pile of eggs in front of him, mouth practically watering.

“You,” Jean declares from where he’s standing behind Marco, “need to relax already.”

Marco just makes a dismissive sound as he takes a big bite of eggs, but doesn’t protest as Jean starts to gently rub at his shoulders.

“Morning, guys,” comes a chipper voice.

Connie appears in the kitchen doorway, wearing a pair of boxers and a bright pink t-shirt printed with a logo of a bow and arrow underneath the text “Wall Rose Archery Team.”

“Nice shirt,” Jean deadpans.

“Where’s your frilly apron, house husband?” Connie snarks right back.

Marco chokes on his eggs, Jean drops his hands abruptly, and Connie turns with a huge, triumphant grin on his face. 

“I’ve been saving that one!” he crows at Jean, pointing excitedly, before shooting an apologetic look at Marco. “No offense, Marco.”

Marco holds up his hand, pounding his chest a few times as he tries to swallow. “None taken!” he croaks out cheerfully.

“Okay, guys,” Connie concludes, mock saluting them as he retrieves a soda from the refrigerator. “See you later!”

He immediately retreats back up the stairs and Marco clears his throat, convinced he might still have some pepper stuck there.

“House husband,” Jean grunts to himself as he immediately resumes rubbing Marco’s back. “I’m not a fucking house husband.”

Marco decides to let Jean stew in his own annoyance as he enjoys the benefit of an absentminded back rub and some damn fine eggs—who knew Jean could cook?—and is even treated to his plate being cleared.

Marco is lazily sipping his coffee, enjoying the reprieve from studying since it’s his day off from classes (even though he needs to get back to it soon), until Jean’s voice interrupts the peaceful quietude.

“Am I a house husband?” Jean demands, whirling to look at Marco where he’s standing in front of the sink, wearing bright yellow dish gloves covered in soap bubbles. “What the hell does that even mean, anyway?”

Marco gives him a reassuring smile, but somehow, the title gives him a little bit of a jolt. Everyone knows he and Jean are relatively inseparable at this point—either as friends, or whatever everyone calls what they get up to—but the fact is they still haven’t defined it with a word.

Husband is going a little far, but it’s definitely in the direction Marco wants.

Instead, he defuses the situation by laughing lightly. “If it means staying home to wash dishes and never going to class again, I volunteer.”

That gets a little smile out of Jean, and the anger dissipates as quickly as it arrived. He turns back around, snorting dismissively as he tackles the dishes again. “Springer is such a basic bitch.”

“Jean.”

“Sorry!

= = =

True to his word, Marco manages not to touch Jean for the last few weeks of the semester, and Jean keeps his distance and lets Marco struggle through himself.

What Marco’s not expecting is for the distractions stemming from Jean that he thought would be best to avoid only mount, due to the fact that he realizes very quickly what a void in his life Jean’s absence creates.

It just feels wrong, waking up alone every day alone, only able to see Jean—and all his other friends, in fact—during the rare times Marco can stop to take a breather. He mostly spends his time sleeping and studying, walking to class to take a test or tapping away at his computer to write papers. His room is full of stacks of heavy books and notes, highlighters strewn everywhere, and he’s pretty sure there are even a few pens that have stowed away in his sheets.

He can’t stop the nagging feeling that something is wrong all the time, though, without Jean there to rub his shoulders, crack snide jokes at Connie’s expense, or even just as a presence, lying asleep in Marco’s bed, breathing evenly.

It’s official: he is absolutely, irrevocably, and completely in love with Jean Kirschstein.

“Marco?” Margit’s voice buzzes on the phone. “Are you there?”

Marco blinks heavily and refocuses on the conversation he’s been having with his sister. “What?”

There’s a short stint of silence on the other end of the line, and Marco cringes. 

“Did you sleep last night?” she asks flatly.

Marco bites his lip and tries his best to sound convincing, even though he’s well aware that he’s a terrible liar. “Um... yes?” he squeaks.

An hour totally counts.

“For more than an hour?” 

He scowls. “No!” he snaps. “Because I had to finish a paper, okay? Will you get off my back already?”

He readjusts where he’s sitting on his bed cross-legged with his laptop, trying to concentrate on writing an e-mail to one of his professors and talk to his sister at the same time.

“Don’t sass _me_ , Marco Bodt,” Margit retorts airily. “I’m your big sister and I will come down to that college and tell you off in front of all your meathead frat friends.”

Marco sighs with a huff, and he finally mumbles a petulant apology. “They’re not meatheads,” he adds. “Not all fraternities are full of creeps.”

Margit sighs at him-- _at_ him—but her voice grows gentler. “Why aren’t you sleeping?”

He sets his jaw and frowns, but doesn’t deny it. “I have too much work to do.”

“Why don’t you just tell mom and dad that you need to—” 

“No,” Marco cuts her off, his voice flat and unyielding. 

She knows when to let up, and she just sighs; this time, it’s truly weary. “Marco,” she starts again, “you’re going to...”

“What?” he prompts warily.

“You’re going to have a nervous breakdown if you _don’t sleep._ ”

He can’t fault her on that point, but he just shrugs, honestly not knowing what else to say. “It’s only for another week and a half, and then I can relax.” 

“Is Jean helping you?” she asks, her voice hesitant, as if she knows to tread carefully.

“He... we’re taking a break,” he replies, feeling bitterness bite at his throat. “Just, you know, until the end of the semester. I mean, um...” he says awkwardly, “a break from... things.”

That gets a slight laugh on Margit’s end of the phone; she’s also the only one who knows about the true extent of his “thing” with Jean. The rest of his family has come to know Jean by name, though they think it’s completely platonic.

“You know mom probably assumes he’s your boyfriend, right?”

“What?” Marco cries, practically dropping the phone as the bed squeaks. “Did you tell her?”

“Of course not,” Margit retorts reprovingly, but Marco can hear the edge of amusement in her voice. “But it’s sort of sadly obvious. The only thing you talk about more than your permanent boner for Ted Hughes is Jean.”

“I don’t have a boner for Ted Hughes,” Marco replies.

“Yeah, but you have a boner for Jean.”

“I hate you, Margit,” he groans, smiling a little. Talking to her always makes him feel better, even when she rides his ass. “How’s teaching life?”

Margit makes a disgusted sound, and Marco laughs. “Shitty. I don’t know why I listened to mom. I should’ve just accepted that position as a partner, even if the firm is—” she raises her voice an octave—“‘less prestigious than I deserve.’” She makes an exasperated sound as she imitates their mother, and then changes the subject abruptly back to Marco, much to Marco’s dismay. 

“Are you really going to survive? Seriously?”

He sighs and closes his computer, running a hand through his hair tiredly. “I think so,” he finally replies. “I just...” 

Has no idea what he wants after he graduates. Or at least, that’s what he tells himself.

“I just want this all to be over with,” he admits quietly. “I mean, you know me—I like school. But another semester of this? I’m going to lose my mind.”

“You have to promise me something,” she says firmly, her voice solemn.

Marco straightens up and his eyes widen; he already knows whatever she’s about to say is something he won’t like. 

“Yeah?” he asks hesitantly, moving to shove his computer to the side and lie down on the bed, very pointedly stopping himself from grabbing one of Jean’s shirts he’s just spotted wedged between the bed and the wall and drowning in the smell.

“If you start to go off the deep end,” she says, “you have to call me, or you have to tell Jean.”

He heaves an exasperated sigh, but before he can tell her that he’s fine, she interjects. “I’m serious, Marco.” His mouth snaps shut when he hears her tone, and he bites his lip. “If I find out you’re not sleeping and pretending you’re okay when you’re not—and I know that _you_ know damn well where that line is—I will not support you when you tell our parents that you don’t want to go to grad school.”

Marco’s mouth falls open, the repercussions of that statement making his head spin. Margit’s always been his greatest advocate whenever he wants to do something his family would consider “off the wall,” and without her support, he knows he’d be lost.

Of course, the only thing she’s making him promise to do is ask for help if he needs it to avoid his own end. 

“Wait!” he finally blurts out. “What makes you think I don’t want to go to grad school?”

“I don’t think,” she replies confidently. “I _know_.”

Never mind the fact that, as usual, she’s completely right; Marco had decided a semester ago that he couldn’t deal with grad school right away, if ever.

“Okay, fine, I don’t. Happy?”

“No,” she retorts curtly. “I want _you_ to be happy.”

Unexpectedly, Marco’s face contorts slightly, and he gives a shuddery sigh. “Okay,” he whispers. “I promise I’ll tell someone.”

“Good. Tell Jean to give you a kiss from me.”

“That’s creepy, Margit.”

“Well,” she replies, amusement back in her voice, “when you finally bring him around, and come home to _visit_ , I’ll stop asking him to deliver messages to you.”

“You’ve never even talked to him.”

“Oh, believe me,” she says, a grin evident in her voice on the other end of the phone, “I’m pretty sure I know everything about him at this point.”

“Then you also know he’s a sophomore,” Marco blurts out, his voice cracking, “which means he’s going to be here for two more years, and I’ll be gone.”

Margit pauses, and she says softly, “Stop drinking so much damn coffee and take your life one step at a time, okay? You’re only twenty-two, not ninety-two. You’ve got some time before you have to start planning where to retire and with who.”

“I know who I want to retire with,” he says softly, not quite expecting the words to come out of his own mouth.

Unsurprisingly, this doesn’t seem to come as news to Margit.

“Marco,” she says seriously, “first you have to make it through to the end, okay? That’s what you need to do right now.” There’s a short silence, and then she asks softly, her voice uncharacteristically gentle, “Are you in love with him?”

Marco just sighs; that’s all the answer Margit needs.

“Are you sure?” she asks, her voice teasing now. “He sounds like a pain in the ass.” 

Marco starts to laugh at that, the tension dissolving as he throws himself back to lie down on the bed, groaning at her over the phone.

“He is,” he confirms. “He’s the biggest pain in the ass I’ve ever met, and he’s the best friend I’ve ever had.”

“Sounds like it,” Margit replies simply, and Marco knows she understands. “Takes a pain in the ass to know one, anyway,” she adds.

Marco closes his eyes and snorts; he knows she’s right. There’s a few more beats of silence, until Marco says softly, “Margit?”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks for being my sister.”

“You’re welcome,” she replies warmly. Then adds, “Call me next weekend, or else I’ll come looking for you.” 

“Okay,” he agrees, rolling his eyes. “And I promise I’ll sleep at least a few hours every night this week.”

They say goodbye a few times, but when Marco hangs up, he feels wretchedly lonely.

He tries to finish up the e-mail to his professor, but can’t because he’s distracted. Then, he decides maybe getting some serious sleep is in his favor, and pulls out a thick book that he’s relatively sure will push him off into the land of nod.

Unfortunately, it just stresses him out more.

He’s ready to get another cup of coffee and just power through since it’s only eleven at night, but then he remembers Margit’s words. And he’s relatively sure that if he goes _another_ night without sleeping for more than a few hours, he’s going to start to really lose it. He’s already close, since there’s only nine days left until the end of the semester, and it’s as if every single second is essential to fill with productivity.

He decides to keep his promise in his own way.

 **To: Jean  
** 11:01 p.m.  
Hey, you around?

Marco stares at the text, feeling pathetically needy, but sends it anyway.

Within thirty seconds, his phone beeps.

 **From: Jean  
** 11:01 p.m.  
are you ok?

Marco smiles a little, already able to picture the look on Jean’s face—probably stopped in his tracks, staring at the phone. Whether he admits it or not, he worries a little too much.

 **To: Jean  
** 11:02 p.m.  
Everything’s fine. 

He sends it, and then decides to throw caution to the wind.

 **To: Jean  
** 11:02 p.m.  
Are you busy?

 **From: Jean  
** 11:03 p.m.  
out w/ connie and a bunch of other losers at some dumb party. everyone keeps asking about you.

 **From: Jean  
** 11:03 p.m.  
sasha just called me house husband. springer is still a basic bitch. fml.

Marco starts to laugh, and he realizes he already feels more relaxed just texting Jean.

 **To: Jean  
** 11:04 p.m.  
Want to come over later?

 **From: Jean  
** 11:05 p.m.  
you mean 2 doors down? dork.

Marco’s eyes widen in disbelief and he starts to laugh a little. It hadn’t occurred to him Jean might be drunk, and now, reading his silly message, that might be the case. Normally, it’d be fine, but Marco isn’t in the mood to deal with drunk people. 

Suddenly, his phone chirps again unexpectedly, startling him. 

**From: Jean  
** 11:08 p.m.  
open your door.

A smile breaks out over his face that he knows is embarrassingly radiant, and he bounds off the bed to open the door.

Jean is standing there with a little smile on his face—sober, from the looks of it—and he grabs Marco around the waist.

“You ready for a study break finally?”

Marco groans and rolls his eyes, pushing the door shut and wrapping his arms around Jean so tightly, he has to remind himself to let go after a moment.

“Can we just go to bed?” 

The words are out of his mouth so fast he doesn’t even think, and much like the hand holding incident, immediately wishes he hadn’t spoken so quickly. It sounds too coupley, too domestic, too... house husband worthy.

But to his surprise, Jean just gives one of those rare sweet smiles he offers up about once a year and nods. “I was going to leave anyway. Party was lame.”

Jean is acting a little odd, though, since he’s just staring at Marco now, as if unsure of what to expect.

“What?” Marco asks curiously, his eyebrows raising.

“Uh,” Jean says awkwardly, immediately casting his eyes to the floor. “I know I’m not supposed to kiss you, but...”

Marco’s kissing Jean before he can even finish his thought, and Jean just makes a soft sound in his throat that eases a tension in Marco he didn’t even know was there.

When they break apart, Jean is breathless and staring, and he looks totally dumbfounded.

“Thank god,” he finally blurts out, grabbing Marco and pulling him close, pressing kisses against his jaw and down his neck. “Finally give up your monastery resolution?”

Marco grumbles good-naturedly, not letting go of Jean. He also has to fulfill his end of the bargain with Margit.

“Uh,” he says awkwardly as Jean finally extracts himself to take off his jacket and throw it over the back of Marco’s desk chair. 

Jean looks over at him and nods expectantly, waiting for him to finish.

“I...” He knows it shouldn’t be so hard to tell someone. “I didn’t get any sleep this week,” he finally sighs, shaking his head. “I feel... like I’m going a little crazy.”

The concern on Jean’s face makes something in Marco’s chest swell, and he immediately comes over and wraps his arms around Marco.

Marco realizes that he will never cease to feel special to be the recipient of Jean’s affection, rare as it is.

“Okay,” he replies simply with a nods, drawing away after giving Marco an extra squeeze. “You’ve only got a week and a half left, right?”

Marco nods wearily and hums an affirmative. Just thinking of the torturous nine days to comes makes him feel dizzy.

“I’m going to make sure you’re okay,” Jean says quietly, searching Marco’s face with an appeasing expression. 

It’s a stupidly simple statement. It’s the type of offer that many people make each other without knowing what they’re really saying. It’s a pat on the back or a kind word, reassurances that time heals all wounds, checking in with a friendly wave late at night. It’s casual gestures that convey concern.

But Jean doesn’t do pats on the back or common wisdom or casual kind gestures—he does life or death.

Marco has spent his entire life carrying tissues for when his sisters had colds, helping with homework after doing hours of his own, being told to stop crying when he skinned his knees but always helped up. He knows it’s been good for him, knows his parents love him, and knows that Margit would do anything for him.

But he’s never had...

“I’m going to make you breakfast tomorrow,” Jean says more softly, smiling sheepishly, “and you’re going to sleep in whether you like it or not.”

“Um,” Marco replies in a whisper, voice caught in his throat, “okay.”

Jean smiles reassuringly at him, although he also looks slightly mystified, probably because he expected Marco to argue.

And if Marco wasn’t as exhausted as he is, and he hadn’t just had the conversation he did with Margit, he might have indeed argued. But he’s glad that those things happened, because he doesn’t _want_ to argue—he just wants to be with Jean and not think.

He wants to be taken care of.

They get undressed without speaking again, and Jean climbs into bed with him, switching off the light on the nightstand.

Outside, there are the faint sounds of other parties happening, and Jean turns onto his side to face Marco and kiss him on the mouth.

“You okay?” he asks softly, as if he knows Marco won’t be completely honest in the light of day.

“Sort of,” Marco whispers back. “I didn’t get any sleep last night.”

Jean just nods. He hesitates momentarily, looking as if he wants to say something, but then thinking better of it.

“What?” Marco prompts curiously, idly brushing his fingers across the indent of Jean’s waist.

“I heard you up,” he finally admits, averting his eyes. “I... couldn’t sleep because I knew you weren’t sleeping.” He frowns, and emotion flashes through his eyes as he looks up again. “Did you talk to Margit today?”

Marco groans, laughing in embarrassment as he rolls onto his back, lacing his fingers with Jean’s. “You two are going to be the death of me.”

Jean snorts, following Marco and pressing up against his side, lazily bending his leg up and resting it over Marco’s hips in a gesture that’s familiar and comforting to both of them.

“No, you jerk,” he murmurs, squeezing Marco’s hand slightly. “ _You_ will be the death of you. That, or caffeine.”

Marco just hums dismissively, but he doesn’t contradict the observation.

“So, did your monk thing help you concentrate?” Jean asks curiously, dragging his hand over Marco’s collarbones. 

“Not a bit,” Marco laughs wryly, shaking his head. He blushes a little, glad Jean can’t see it, when he adds, “I missed you.”

He thinks it might be a little too emotional, too sentimental for Jean to handle, but to his surprise, Jean just leans forward to kiss his jaw softly.

“Have you even jerked off?” he asks in disbelief.

Marco lets out an agonized sound. “Way too much.” 

“Do you have to get up early tomorrow?” Jean asks, a mischievous note creeping into his voice.

“No,” Marco replies, and then gasps as Jean disappears under the covers.

“I know what’ll put you out,” he says as he gets on top of Marco, “You’ll sleep great.”

“Tea?” Marco squeaks, and Jean is already halfway down his sternum, pressing quick, hot kisses through his t-shirt. “And no, I— _oh god Jean_ —”

Marco can almost _hear_ the satisfaction in Jean’s voice as he laughs under his breath, and then starts to pay careful attention to every part of Marco’s body he can reach.

Jean kisses him everywhere, working Marco’s shirt and boxers off, biting and nipping at all the places he knows feel good. He’s currently exploring Marco’s hipbones with his mouth after kissing so tenderly up Marco’s inner thighs that Marco had actually started to blush. 

Jean’s only gone down on Marco twice. Once after a party where they’d fallen wildly in bed together, and one morning when Jean had been feeling particularly adventurous.

It looks like he’s about to go for round three. What Marco doesn’t want to tell him, for fear of pressuring him, is that Jean is about as good at oral as he is at kissing.

Which is to say: the best Marco’s ever had. Even though he’s less sexually experienced, he just knows how to work his mouth perfectly. It’s like divine compensation for all the smarmy bullshit that comes out of it the rest of the time.

“Oh, Jean,” Marco whimpers as he feels the swipe of Jean’s tongue over the head of his cock. “That’s really good...” He reaches down to fumble for Jean’s hair under the blankets, and then tangles his fingers there as Jean kisses at his cock.

To his surprise, though, Jean draws away momentarily and his head pops back up from under the covers, kneeling there between Marco’s legs, his face flushed even in the dim light coming from outside.

“Do you like... um...” he bites his lip, looking so fucking adorable Marco can’t stand it.

He pulls Jean forward and kisses him, arching up against him, before answering in a hushed voice, “Do I like what?”

“Have you ever had anything in your ass?” Jean blurts out awkwardly.

Marco actually pulls away to stare at him in shock, and Jean immediately looks mortified.

Not wanting to lose the moment, Marco blurts out just as abruptly, “Yeah, and it feels good.” 

Jean blinks at him in surprise, and then he gives a comedically shy smile. “I, um... did some reading, and...” He cocks his head to the side. “I just... I thought you’d like it.”

“You did sex research for me?” Marco asks in disbelief, his eyes wide.

Jean snorts at him and puts on his game face. “No. I did it for science.”

Marco grins, feeling happier than he has in weeks, and kisses Jean again.

A bottle of lube and a condom on Jean’s fingers later, and Marco has stopped caring how loud he gets, riding two very deft fingers as Jean bobs his head.

He’d shown Jean how to curl them, to find that little magical spot that no one ever tells you about as a guy, and Jean has an uncanny talent for hitting Marco’s over and over.

“Fuck! Jean!” Marco knows he’s practically screaming at this point as the bed squeaks between the two of them moving—Jean still under the covers giving it his all, and Marco arching his back sharply—but he doesn’t care one bit. Fuck everything—fuck studying, fuck their housemates, fuck common decency. The only important “fucking” going on is in Jean’s mouth and Marco’s ass.

“I’m gonna come,” he groans, warning Jean as his hand tightens in Jean’s hair, “Jean...”

His breath catches and his entire body stiffens as he comes in Jean’s mouth, shuddering and moaning shamelessly. He even feels a few tears trickle down his cheeks at the blissful feeling of release, but also the merciless stimulation Jean is still giving with his two fingers buried knuckle-deep in Marco’s ass.

Jean is gentle and surprisingly composed when he slips his fingers out, slow and careful, and then he appears from under the covers with an expression on his face that takes Marco’s breath away.

There’s one adjective that describes it, and Marco’s afraid to even think the word.

“Was that good?” he asks in a whisper, studying Marco’s face intently as he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. He looks so unlike his usual cocky self, and Marco just nods dumbly, transfixed.

Jean smiles a little in satisfaction, nodding. “You’ll sleep really good, right?” He grins a little, giving Marco a saucy expression, and Marco smiles in return.

“Not quite yet,” he growls, immediately eliciting a startled expression from Jean.

Between them, they get Jean’s boxer-briefs off and then Jean makes a needy sound as Marco reaches between his legs, his knees drawn up and spread apart unselfconsciously, totally lost in the moment.

It’s crude and simple, but Jean shudders and moans as Marco jerks him off, using lots of lube and even a little dirty talk. Marco himself hasn’t really ever done anything beyond hand jobs or blowjobs, even though he’s always been curious about other things.

But to his own surprise, he’s been brave enough to experiment a little bit with dirty talk he’ll only ever whisper into Jean’s ear. He doesn’t even think he could say it to anyone else without dying of embarrassment. With Jean, though, it just makes the entire experience hotter.

“You like fucking my hand?” he growls into Jean’s ear quietly as he strokes.

“Yeah,” Jean moans, shivering. “I like it, feels g-good, oh god, Marco...”

He speeds up slightly, feeling a little adventurous. “Fuck my hand like you fucked me with your fingers,” he whispers hotly. Jean lets out a high pitched cry as he starts to come over Marco’s hand, his voice going staccato as he says Marco’s name.

Finally, he relaxes and Marco pulls his hand away.

“That was amazing,” Jean breathes into his ear, going totally limp, his voice dreamlike. “All of it. Marco, I...”

Marco can practically hear Jean’s teeth clatter together as he snaps his mouth shut, and Marco holds onto him tightly.

“You what?” he asks in a whisper, trying not to tremble.

“Nothing,” Jean replies quietly, kissing Marco’s temple. “That was just really good.” Finally, he draws away, and offers Marco a smile that’s somehow bittersweet. “Okay, Bodt,” he says sternly, “are you finally ready to relax?” He laughs a little, reaching out to touch Marco’s face.

“Yeah,” Marco murmurs, pressing his hand against the back of Jean’s. Jean looks surprised at first, but then his face softens. There’s something he seems to understand, and he just nods. 

They settle down together, and Jean wraps both his arms around Marco in a gesture that is unmistakably protective.

“You’re not waking up before ten,” Jean whispers, kissing his ear. “I’m not letting you go.”

Marco mumbles sleepily and just pushes back against Jean happily, finding his hand and hanging on tight.

“I’m never becoming a monk.”

“Good plan.”

“Jean...” Marco starts, opening his eyes.

Jean’s quiet for a moment, before he replies uncertainly, “Yeah?”

“About what you were going to say...” Marco whispers, his throat tightening. “Me too.”

Jean stiffens, but then he just curls around Marco even tighter. “Okay,” he whispers.

They fall asleep quickly, and when Marco wakes up the next day, he doesn’t even care that it’s eleven.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since this has since turned into a monster, despite my initial "lol one shot" claims, comments and feedback is appreciated more than ever! :'D


	3. What To Call Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marco figures out what to call home. 
> 
> Or, in this case, who.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope this one was worth the wait! It only took me, um... three months. Thank you to Riema (wingsofbadass) and Ciera (ohsnapciera) for reading this in its various states of (in)completion. Your input is invaluable and very much appreciated!
> 
> Omg, this got so long.
> 
> If you have feedback, concrit, anything... lay it on me! This is the first thing I've posted in a while, and it was slow going.

**Winter Break (Jean’s sophomore year, Marco’s senior year)**

It’s not the best idea to worry about anything besides GPA your senior year of college.

No matter that Jean hasn’t slept in his own bed in a month.

No matter how you feel like you can’t breathe when you picture life after graduation.

No matter how much you want to tell your family you “met someone.”

No matter how he makes you want to dream about a future with him in it.

No matter how you now know what it’s like to come home without setting foot in your family’s house.

But “you”—being Marco Bodt—aren’t so naive as to think any of this is possible.

Sometimes, though, it snows.

= = =

“I’ll see you soon.”

“No, I’ll see _you_ soon.”

“Not before I see you!”

Jean huffs and growls, “It’s too early for this shit.”

Connie looks over at Jean in surprise, and Sasha looks startled as well.

They’re saying goodbye for Christmas break, and unlike the summer semester, they’re not going to see each other for a month and a half.

Marco raises a reproving eyebrow, but Jean just ducks his head and grumbles into his cereal.

Something is bothering him, and Marco isn’t sure what it is. It obviously goes beyond Connie and Sasha being sappy—something Marco privately thinks is kind of cute—and he’s being moody instead of sharing what’s on his mind.

However, Connie is almost completely immune to Jean’s sniping at this point, and he just snorts and rolls his eyes.

“Let’s go, Sash,” he declares, grabbing Sasha’s hand. “The bad vibes in here are totally putting a damper on my Christmas spirit, and we still have enough time to get hot chocolate.” He offers up a huge grin, which Sasha returns with an equally radiant smile as they link hands, disappearing out the front door to leave Jean to his miserable mood.

“What’s with you?” Marco asks lightly, trying to sound teasing.

When Jean looks up and glares at him, he reneges.

“No offense,” he corrects, cocking his head to the side in curiosity.

“What’s with _you_?” Jean retorts with a sour expression and narrowed eyes. “You’re so... cheerful.”

“The semester is over!” Marco whoops, throwing his hands in the air as if praising some merciful god who’s granted him a divine favor. He grins, pointing at Jean. “And even though I’m crazy enough to plan to work on my classes for the spring in advance, the semester is over!”

“Only one more semester until you graduate,” Jean replies in a neutral tone. Suddenly, he rises abruptly where he’s been sitting with his bowl and starts toward the stairs. “I’m going upstairs for some peace and quiet. I’ll see you later.”

Marco just stares at Jean’s retreating back, unsure of what he did—or if he did anything at all—but decides to leave Jean to his misery. The day is too nice and he’s feeling too enthusiastic about the fact that the sleepless nights have finally ebbed to worry about Jean’s inexplicable moods. It’d be one thing if he wanted to talk, but he obviously just wants to sulk.

Just as Marco is about to take off to the cafe for a coffee, though, his phone starts to ring.

“Hello?”

Margit’s voice immediately comes over the line, and she sounds irritated. “Hey, little brother. Finals go okay?”

Marco heaves a sigh of relief and collapses on the couch, grinning when he hears her voice. “Yeah, finally, I’m free! I’ll be home tomorrow, and—”

Margit starts to give a short chuckle, but then Marco cringes as the shrill scream of a baby breaks over the line. There’s the sound of fumbling, then Margit instructing her husband to take Marco’s nephew she’s undoubtedly been carrying in her arms. 

“Sorry,” she apologizes. “Kids. Anyway, so this is pretty messed up, huh?” 

He frowns, tilting his head to the side. “What do you mean?”

There’s a surprised noise, followed by a heavy sigh from Margit’s end of the phone, and Marco’s jaw clenches. “What?” he asks in dread.

“Mom and Dad—whisked away for some political thing off in some place I can’t pronounce the name of for the holidays. You know how it is.”

Marco feels his heart sink, and he bites his lip. It’s not that he’s never spent a holiday alone—far from it—but he was looking forward to being with his family this year. Even though the his parents are busy and demanding, they’re also doting, and going home always rejuvenates him.

“You didn’t know,” Margit guesses, startling Marco out of his reverie. “Mom was probably going to call you this afternoon. Sorry for ruining your good mood.”

He sighs, knowing it’s pointless to deny it, and shrugs. “No, but I’m not surprised.” He tries to brighten his mood and forces a smile. “Hey, after I graduate, then I’ll have lots of free time.” He laughs wryly, and Margit just hums.

“I was going to complain about it,” she continues, sounding apologetic, “but I thought you knew. Well, never mind, because I was going to ask you to come to my place, and—”

Before she can continue, though, Marco jumps when he sees Jean standing at the foot of the stairs, staring at him in interest.

He raises an eyebrow at Jean, as if to ask why he’s being stared at, and Jean gestures for him to hang up the phone, making the shape of a receiver with his hand and pushing it down.

“Um, Margit?” Marco asks with slightly widened eyes. “Can I call you back?”

“Is he there?” she shrieks, and Marco’s eardrum feels like it shatters. “Let me talk to him! _Marco_ , let me—” 

“Uh, what?” he shouts, feigning a bad connection. “Margit? I’ll call you right back— _click_.”

“Did you just hang up on your sister?” Jean asks, grinning a little as he meets Marco’s eyes. 

“Um, maybe,” Marco replies sheepishly, staring at the phone and knowing he’s going to catch hell over it. “She was bothering me to talk to you.”

A shadow falls over Jean’s face, and Marco immediately regrets the words. “No!” he exclaims. “I don’t mean that I don’t want you to talk to her, but she’s... a little much sometimes.” He laughs nervously, giving a small appeasing smile. “You’ll meet her at graduation, okay? I promise.” 

“Okay,” Jean mumbles, shoving his hands in his pockets and looking at the floor. There’s a dejected look that flickers over his face so fast, Marco’s not sure whether he imagined it.

Then he sighs, though, remembering the disappointing conversation. “Margit just told me that our parents are away at some political thing.”

“Oh, that sucks” Jean replies sympathetically, but then his eyebrows raise expectantly. “Um...” he starts, hesitating, before blurting out abruptly, “Why don’t you come to my mom’s with me?” Just as quickly, though, his face goes beet red, as if thinking better of the words.

“Really?” Marco asks with a huge smile, a wave of warm feelings washing over him. Suddenly, the idea of spending the break with Jean seems nearly as good as with his own family.

Jean’s entire expression shifts, and a light appears in his eyes. He looks almost shy as he gives a slight shrug and mumbles, “Yeah, if you want.” 

Marco surges forward to wrap his arms around Jean, giving a unabashed grin as the tightness of his embrace earns a startled noise.

“That’d be awesome,” he says softly, releasing Jean just as quickly. “She was going to invite me to hang out with her and her husband,” he shrugs a little, though, cringing slightly, “and they’re awesome, but their house is really small and kind of crazy since they just had a baby...” He trails off, knowing that Jean won’t approve of the alternate plans he’s already hatched despite his excitement over the semester ending. “And if I don’t go anywhere, then...”

“You’d stay here and _study_ ,” Jean immediately finishes with an appalled expression.

It’s uncanny how well he can predict Marco these days.

“Um, maybe?” Marco replies with a sheepish half-smile.

Finally, Jean loses his embarrassed demeanor and smiles genuinely, reaching out to pat Marco reprovingly on the shoulder. “You’re not staying here and slaving over classwork that hasn’t even started yet. I don’t want to come back from break and find you crushed to death by a two-hundred pound book.”

“Don’t worry,” Marco deadpans, “with my luck, I’d probably live through the accident and just suffer until you all got back and discovered me.” He quirks an eyebrow playfully at Jean, already feeling lighter than he has in months. “You know, like the past few semesters, when I don’t get up on time or have coffee readily available.”

Jean snorts and pokes Marco lightly in the arm. “Vacation—some of us actually take it, you know.”

Marco hums and pokes Jean right back, and then suddenly, a tendril of unexpected excitement curls in him.

It never occurred to him that Jean would invite him home, and on top of that, he’s slowly realizing he hasn’t taken a proper break from school in at least a year.

“When are you leaving?” Marco asks eagerly, suddenly feeling the urge to just throw whatever  
he can reach into his seldom-used duffel bag and escape.

Jean’s eyes widen as he studies Marco in surprise, and then he grins. “Did the word ‘vacation’ just set you off?”

“Yes,” Marco groans, laughing miserably. “It’s time.”

Jean nods enthusiastically. “I’m driving, and I was going to leave this afternoon.”

“Done,” Marco nods decisively. “I’ll be ready. I’ll be ready before _you’re_ ready, in fact!”

Jean takes an abrupt step forward, and then hesitates; Marco just stares at him in surprise, completely mystified, until he closes the distance between them, and in a blur of motion, wraps his hands around Marco’s waist to kiss him on the mouth.

It’s not that Jean isn’t affectionate. He is in some ways—he’ll hold Marco’s hand in certain situations, he loves to cuddle, he’s always generous in bed—but for him to take the initiative (much less in public) to simply kiss Marco because he’s in a good mood is unprecedented.

When the kiss breaks, Marco just stares at Jean, and he feels emotionally stripped bare.

Jean clears his throat self-consciously and draws away. “There’s supposed to be some dumb ass snow storm,” he warns, shoving his hands roughly in his pockets. “So, let’s go soon, okay?”

“Yeah,” Marco croaks, still staring at Jean.

If someone had informed him a year ago that he’d be headed to Jean Kirschstein’s house for the holidays—the cute new freshman with the embarrassingly obvious crush—and blushing like an idiot over a simple kiss, he would’ve laughed.

No one’s laughing now as Marco watches Jean’s retreating back (almost unconsciously noting the way that the tight jeans Jean’s wearing make his ass look amazing), and he realizes he’s never been very good at predicting his own future.

“Get to it, Bodt! I’m leaving you behind if you’re not packed in an hour,” Jean insists over his shoulder.

“Diva,” Marco snarks right back as he forces himself out of his own stupor to follow Jean up the stairs. “I’m not bringing any lube if you’re going to be a nag.”

There’s a short silence, and Marco realizes what he said a few seconds too late.

Goddamn it, that was so painfully relationshippy, he might as well crack a joke about engagement rings.

But then, Jean’s practically cackling as he continues up the stairs and into his room. “You’re bluffing.”

And the sad fact is that, yes, Marco really is bluffing.

Marco realizes he’s been bluffing about a lot of things lately. 

= = =

“How could you not charge your phone all the way?” Jean snaps, shooting Marco a disgruntled sidelong glance before quickly focusing back on the snowy road stretched in front of them.

Marco returns the withering look, resisting the urge to stick out his tongue. “You didn’t charge yours either,” he retorts.

They’ve been in the car for five hours now, and they’re starting to snipe at each other.

Or, more accurately: it started snowing two hours ago, and Jean’s mood had promptly turned from lighthearted to foul.

Marco had been trying to step around it, until Jean snapped at him when he casually suggested pulling over at a rest stop.

And now, their phones are both nearly dead, they’ve been forced to take a detour, it’s settled into late evening, and Jean looks like he’s ready to have a nervous breakdown.

He’s scowling as he stares hard out the windshield, slouched forward defensively with his leather jacket zipped up to the neck, fingers white-knuckled around the steering wheel, jaw tense. There’s quiet music playing along with the blast of the car’s heat that Marco had discreetly chosen to try and ease Jean’s nerves, but it doesn’t seem to be helping.

“You’re afraid of driving in the snow?” Marco guesses finally, trying a different approach as he tucks the map he’s been studying back into the glove compartment. 

Jean shoots another glare at Marco, but the nervous look in his eyes gives him away. Marco doesn’t take the bait, and just waits instead.

“Well,” he grunts hesitantly, “it can be kind of hard.”

Marco makes a noise of acknowledgment; he’d never want to drive in heavy snow.

“Yeah,” he agrees. “It doesn’t snow as hard in Jinae as it does when you get further up.”

Trost isn’t an ocean away, but it’s also further north than Jinae, and all it takes is a few hundred miles to make a difference in weather patterns.

“You want me to drive?” Marco asks hesitantly, not wanting to piss Jean off even more.

To his surprise, though, Jean gives him a grateful look and a nod. “Um,” he replies, vitriol completely vanished as he nervously clicks the headlights to high beam, then back to regular when it makes the visibility worse, “one time, I got lost in a blizzard.” He simply leaves it at that, and Marco can only imagine how bad it must’ve been for Jean to outright admit fear.

Marco makes a wry, meditative noise and reaches over to pat Jean’s shoulder lightly.

“No problem,” he replies lightly. “Why don’t you pull over at the next rest stop, we can eat something, and then I’ll drive. It’s only about two more hours, right?”

“Yeah,” Jean nods with a sigh, finally appearing to release the tension that’s been wracking his body for hours. “Thanks,” he mumbles.

Marco just smiles sympathetically. “Snow sucks.”

By the time they’re approaching the next rest stop, though, the snow is coming down so heavily that even the windshield wipers can’t maintain any kind of consistent visibility.

“Oh my god, fuck this,” Jean declares suddenly in a high-pitched, nervous voice as they sail past the rest stop. “We have to get a room. We’re going to spin out if we keep going.”

He looks over at Marco quickly, panic written across his face, until staring back at the road with squinted eyes, leaning slightly forward as if it will help him see better.

“You don’t mind cutting time with your mom short?” Marco asks hesitantly, feeling a little guilty since he was about to suggest the exact same thing.

Jean laughs humorlessly. “I’d rather be alive, than try to make it on time and die,” he declares wryly. 

Marco snorts and nods in agreement, before using his sleeve to wipe the condensation off his window made foggy from the heat.

“Look,” he says, pointing straight ahead, “there’s the next exit, and it says...” He squints, tilting his head to the side slightly. “Uh, Motel Route 104.”

“Obviously the lap of luxury,” Jean remarks with a roll of his eyes, but his relief is obvious as he slows the car down to a crawl and turns carefully onto the exit ramp. “At least it’ll be cheap, since we’re literally in the middle of nowhere.”

True to Jean’s words, as they reach the single traffic light at the end of the ramp, Marco can only see two stretches of dark, snowy road in both directions. The only lights are from the occasional car on the highway behind them.

“Creepy,” he observes nervously, raising an eyebrow.

Jean looks over at him and actually laughs. “I thought Jinae was in the sticks?” he asks, slowly inching the car forward as the light turns green. The turn is almost painful as he eases the steering wheel to the left, following the direction of the arrow on the hand-painted motel sign that’s poking out of an impressive snow bank.

“Sort of,” Marco explains absently, staring intently out the window, stunned by how dark and vast their surroundings are. “It’s ‘in the sticks,’ as in, ‘I have a country home there.’” There are huge fields on both sides of the road which Marco assumes are used to grow crops in the spring and summer, though it’s hard to tell when they’re covered in snow and eyes, distant patches of trees at the perimeter. He shivers a little, focusing his attention back on Jean. “Don’t get me wrong—my family’s not wealthy, but we do all right. My parents have lived there since before I was born.”

Jean nods, obviously only half-listening to the explanation, until he finally echoes Marco’s former sentiments. “It _is_ creepy out here,” he says, eyes focused intensely on the road. “I think the motel’s only a mile up, though.”

Just as he says it, they hit an icy patch and the car swerves sharply, causing Marco to yelp. 

“ _Fuck!_ ” Jean shouts as the car ends up at a ninety degree angle, lights shining crazily off into one of the dark expanses of field.

It all happens so fast, Marco doesn’t even know they’re still on the road until he blinks and catches up with himself. Jean’s eyes are wide with terror as he whips his head around to look at Marco.

Marco instinctively reaches out to put a hand on Jean’s shoulder. “It’s fine,” he says in a jittery voice, trying to sound reassuring. “Nothing happened, and we’re still on the road.”

Jean just continues to grip the steering wheel so hard, Marco wouldn’t be surprised if there were permanent indentations left; after a few beats of silence, though, he slowly forces his fingers to let go.

“Right,” he finally croaks, shaking his head slightly as if to snap himself out of his own adrenaline-induced panic. “Right!” he repeats, taking a deep breath.

“Uh, I’m glad you’re here,” he remarks suddenly, looking over at Marco as he eases the gas pedal down again, turning the wheel to straighten out the car. 

Once they’re turned in the right direction again, Marco smiles and squeezes his shoulder sympathetically.

“You ready?”

Jean nods a little, swallowing hard, and the car starts to slowly inch along again.

It takes nearly half-an-hour to reach their destination since Jean drives at five miles an hour, emergency flashers blinking in case some maniac has decided to venture onto the road, but finally they roll to a stop in a nearly full parking lot.

It’s the type of motel where the rooms all open to the outside, and Marco can see the distant pink light of the manager’s office with an old-fashioned sign that says “vacancy.”

“I think we just time traveled,” Marco declares wryly, looking over at Jean as he raises an eyebrow, “to the seventies.”

That earns a laugh out of Jean; he already looks more relaxed now that they’ve reached a stopping point in the treacherous journey.

Marco yawns widely, covering his mouth with the back of his hand which he’d shoved into a hand-knit mitten hours before (courtesy of a sister he doesn’t recall) and blinking sleepily. His and Jean’s collective stress has taken its toll, and suddenly the idea of a bed sounds more appealing than ever.

The snow is still steadily falling as they get out of the car, and the slam of Jean’s door echoes loudly in the parking lot. It’s almost otherworldly since the only sign of civilization apart from all the parked cars is the light from the motel.

“Now with _extra_ creepy,” Jean murmurs under his breath, shoving his hands into his pockets and looking at Marco with a critical expression. Marco laughs a little, distracted by trying to make sure he doesn’t slip on black ice.

“Doesn’t look like it’s going to stop any time soon,” he observes, squinting up into the dark, snowy sky. “I guess we’ll see tomorrow.”

“Yeah,” Jean nods, making a disgruntled face. “I’ll call my mom once we’re inside, and I’m not—” he shivers, bottom lip trembling with the frigid air, “—freezing my balls off.”

Marco chuckles, shaking his head. “C’mon, then,” he says, breaking into a jog, though still mindful of ice, “let’s get this over with.” 

Jean catches up as they both run comedically slowly through the snow and ice, careful not to fall, until reaching the management office’s door.

Marco shoots Jean a curious, cautious look as he tries the doorknob, and it opens into a tiny room with a desk and a small space heater going behind it.

“Can I help you?” comes a gravelly, disinterested voice. A man in his late forties is sitting behind the desk, and he looks up expectantly from his newspaper.

“Hi!” Marco says cheerfully. “I saw you have vacancies? We got waylaid by the storm and need a place to stay.”

The manager yawns, putting down his reading material and giving them an evaluative gaze. There’s something about how he looks at them back and forth that makes Marco a little uneasy.

Jean is staring the guy down, unblinking, as if sensing aggression but unsure where it’s coming from. Marco keeps the smile on his face, adding, “Me and my brother are our way to see family. Real shame that we got stuck.”

He doesn’t bother looking at Jean, trusting that it’ll be obvious why he’d make the statement.

Sure enough, the man’s demeanor immediately changes, and he seems to relax, folding the paper neatly in half before setting it down on the desk.

“Oh, gotcha,” he says with a nod and a sympathetic smile. “Yeah, these parts get mighty snowy sometimes. You boys might be here for more than a night.”

“What?” comes Jean’s dismayed voice. “How come?”

“Well, this storm’s not due to roll out for at least two days, according to the weatherman,” the man replies. Marco fights the urge to rankle his nose as he gets a sudden whiff of stale cigarette smoke.

“Hate to say it,” he continues, “but all I’ve got left is a few singles with a king. You boys want separate rooms?”

Marco feels disbelief curl in him; he forgets how ignorant the real world can be. College is like a bubble in many ways.

Jean starts to say something—Marco can feel the tension rising—and he interjects, “That’s okay. I’ll sleep on the floor.” 

He gives a friendly smile, but then turns to raise an eyebrow at Jean as the hotel manager is distracted, turning to a large backboard with dozens of keys hanging off it. 

Talk about old-fashioned—metal keys to go with outdated morality. 

To Marco’s relief, though, Jean takes the hint and keeps his mouth shut.

Finally, they’re awarded a key after Marco’s credit card is swiped through a machine using carbon paper, and they tiredly grab a few things out of the car.

As soon as the door swings open into the small room, Jean flies past Marco and launches himself onto the large king bed.

“I’m going to sleep forever,” he groans dramatically, lying on his back and letting his legs hang off the edge. Marco laughs a little, closing and locking the door behind them. 

There’s a small, rickety-looking table with a copy of the yellow pages on top of it, a small TV sitting on an old faux-wood dresser, and then the king bed itself with a loud, purple paisley print straight out of a seventies mail order catalogue.

“Let me call my mom,” Jean says suddenly, sitting up with raised eyebrows. “She’s probably worried.”

The bed squeaks obnoxiously as he gets to his feet, pulling his phone out of his pocket before rifling around the small bag he’d grabbed from the car for his charger.

Marco gives a tired sigh, making a beeline for the bathroom to wash his face and brush his teeth, feeling stale from sitting in the car for so long.

Just as he’s turned on the sink, though, and is about to bask in the bliss of hot water, he hears Jean let out a sharp curse from the other room.

“You’ve _gotta_ fucking be kidding me,” comes the growl, more frustrated than usual probably due to stress, hunger, and fatigue. “What are we supposed to do? Use morse code?”

“What’s wrong?” Marco asks, coming to stand in the doorway and look at Jean in surprise.

Jean throws his hands up, looking infuriated and scowling. “I can’t even get steady reception in this godforsaken wilderness.”

Marco cringes, reaching into his own pocket to pull out his phone; sure enough, when he turns it on with what little power it has left, the reception bars flash in and out. Long enough for the phone to snag a text, possibly, but certainly not to have a phone conversation.

“Well, you can use the hotel phone, I guess,” Marco shrugs, shooting a glance over at the old-fashioned telephone sitting next to a cheap ceramic lamp. “There are probably instructions in the drawer.”

Jean gives a heavy sigh of irritation and continues to scowl, and then his stomach growls.

Marco offers a sympathetic little smile, before crossing the room and coming to stand in front of Jean. He puts both hands on Jean’s shoulders and squeezes slightly, before pushing the leather jacket down both arms.

“Relax,” he says simply. “At least we’re not dead in a ditch, ready to be eaten by a snow leopard.” 

Jean blinks at him, staring as if Marco’s lost his mind, until finally giving a final tired groan that means he’s given up on being angry.

“Take off your jacket, call your mom,” Marco instructs, pulling Jean into his arms, “and then we’ll get food, okay?”

To his surprise, Jean just rests his head on Marco’s shoulder, taking a deep breath before pulling away.

“Sorry for being a pain,” he mutters, turning in the other direction to try and figure out the phone.

Marco smiles a little and shrugs. “It comes with the territory.”

“Of what?” Jean asks wryly, sitting down on the edge of the bed with his useless phone to dial his mother’s number by hand. “Being with me?”

For some reason, the way Jean says it makes Marco’s heart speed up, but he keeps the easy smile on his face and shakes his head. “Traveling with someone who’s tired and hungry,” he replies simply.

He starts to laugh as Jean flips him off, the phone receiver pressed to his ear. Just as Marco’s about to return back to the promised land of hot water, though, Jean’s words stop him.

“Oh, you already knew?” he asks as he listens to his mother on the other end of the phone. He looks up at Marco and shrugs a little. “Yeah, it’s pretty bad.”

Marco cringes a little and puts both hands up in a “what can you do” motion.

Jean frowns mildly, but it doesn’t sound like his mother is particularly surprised. She was probably watching the progress of the storm.

Marco’s attention is caught again, though, as Jean suddenly says, “Uh...” He glances up to meet Marco’s eyes, looking strangely embarrassed. “Yeah, he’s here.”

Marco’s eyes widen, and he points to himself. Jean just nods, a slight blush rising in his cheeks as he drops his gaze awkwardly.

“No, you can’t talk to him, he’s... brushing his teeth,” Jean says quickly, shaking his head. “You’ll meet him eventually and— mom, _no_ , we aren’t... no.”

He rolls his eyes at Marco in a long-suffering expression, but Marco feels like he can’t breathe, since he’s relatively sure Jean’s mother just asked if they’re an item. And the answer is no.

He points to the bathroom door, and Jean just nods as he continues the conversation with his mother.

Marco tries not to let his lip tremble as he shuts the bathroom door behind him and looks in the mirror, staring at his own face. 

“Stop acting like a child,” he reproves himself, scowling. 

He tries to think about what Margit would say to him, how she’d whip him into shape. But the truth is, he’s not sure she would even try, because this isn’t about school or quantifiable factors. This is about feelings, which Marco has no idea how to even begin to approach. He’s good at rules; not messy emotions.

He jumps as there’s a sudden knock at the door, and Jean’s voice calls through it, “Spa time is over, Bodt. I gotta brush my teeth.”

Marco would normally laugh, but he feels so floored by the disappointing turn of events, he doesn’t.

Instead, he gathers his wits, taking a deep breath and trying to focus on what’s happening right now: bed, sleep, teeth-brushing. Nothing catastrophic or soul destroying.

Once they’ve switched places, he settles into bed and turns out all the lights, leaving the lamp on next to what he’s designated as Jean’s side. He’s not in any state to deal with these emotions until he regains some energy, so he tries to fall asleep as quickly as possible.

But all it takes is Jean coming out of the bathroom, flipping off the light, and nudging at Marco’s shoulder with a whispered, “You’re on my side,” to get a tear to track down Marco’s cheek in the dark.

“Your side?” Marco asks quietly, trying to make a joke out of it.

“Yeah,” Jean replies, sounding a little bewildered. “I always sleep on the left side.”

It’s true—at college, they always sleep on the same sides of Marco’s bed. 

“Okay,” Marco replies with an indifferent shrug, shifting over to the right side. “I don’t mind either way.”

He hears Jean sigh, and then he starts as he feels a warm body press up behind him hesitantly. 

“What’s wrong?” Jean asks simply, rubbing his hand gently down Marco’s arm. It’s a tender, undemanding touch that makes Marco feel even worse.

“Nothing,” Marco retorts sharply, moving away.

He can practically feel the hurt radiating off Jean, and then a feeling of nausea hits him when Jean just rolls over dejectedly and curls onto his side.

They can’t keep doing this.

Marco uses all of his remaining strength to gather his composure and wrap his arm around an extra pillow, ignoring the fact that a few more tears have actually leaked down his cheek.

He feels more alone than he has in a very long time, even though Jean is only a few feet away, and he falls into an uneasy sleep.

When he wakes up again, he doesn’t know what time it is; it can’t be that late in the morning, because the light peeking through the curtains is pale.

He realizes quickly that he’s not cold, though, and that’s because Jean has managed to wind himself around Marco in such a way that prevents escape.

One arm is wrapped around Marco’s waist, and their legs are tangled; Jean’s cheek is pressed against Marco’s shoulder, and he’s curled close, breathing evenly.

Marco doesn’t even know what to think, especially since it’s relatively obvious Jean ended up this way in his sleep; but as Marco moves to stretch over and turn the alarm clock so he can check the time, Jean whimpers a little.

He sighs, frowning slightly, and then in a voice that’s half-awake, half-dreaming, says, “Don’t be mad.” He sighs, shaking his head, and then his eyes flutter open slowly. “Marco?”

Marco just raises his eyebrows, but Jean still looks confused and sleepy.

“I had a dream,” he says softly, yawning as his eyes close again, “that you were mad at me...”

“I’m not mad at you,” Marco finally replies softly, taking Jean’s hand. “I promise.”

That gets a silly little smile and a deep, tired sigh as his hand tightens around Marco’s. “You’re a dork,” he murmurs, turning his head to press a kiss to Marco’s collar bone.

When he doesn’t say anything for a few minutes, Marco thinks he’s fallen asleep again, until Jean murmurs softly, “I know you were mad.”

“I wasn’t mad,” Marco replies, giving up the fight to remain stoic, “I was sad.”

“I’m sorry,” Jean whispers, opening his eyes again and blinking sleepily. He arches his eyebrows and looks contrite, a rare expression for him to make. “Why were you sad?”

Marco just lowers his eyes and shakes his head, but he doesn’t draw away.

Jean waits for a few beats, and then to Marco’s surprise, says, “You didn’t let me talk to your sister.” When Marco pulls back to stare at him, Jean just shakes his head, “So I didn’t think you’d want to talk to my mom.”

“I’m sorry,” Marco echoes, pulling Jean close. “I didn’t mean it like that. I just didn’t want to pressure you.”

Jean nods a little, but Marco can tell the explanation has taken some weight off his mind.

“Hey,” he says softly, stroking his fingertips through the fine hair at Jean’s temples, “you’re tired. Yesterday was really stressful—go back to sleep.” He leans forward, abandoning any self-preservation, and kisses Jean’s forehead. “I promise I’ll be here when you wake up,” he whispers, “and I won’t be mad, okay?”

“Okay,” Jean replies timidly. Within a few minutes, his body goes completely limp, and he’s finally completely asleep.

“Of course that’s your side,” Marco whispers, pressing his forehead against Jean’s, before falling back asleep.

= = =

It’s nearly eleven by the time they both wake up again, and departure is looking less and less likely.

“So,” Marco declares, staring at the news report in dismay, “it looks like we’re stuck here for at least a few days.”

Jean sits up in bed next to him, blinking sleepily at the TV where the weather forecast is displayed with disconcertingly cheerful graphics of clouds with sad faces and snow. It’s accompanied by equally disconcerting ambient music, even as it advertises what appears to be the blizzard of the century.

“Are you serious?” he whines, burrowing back into the bed and pulling the sheets over his head.

“Afraid so,” Marco confirms grimly, yawning and turning to lie back down against the pillows. “We’re going to have to entertain ourselves.”

Jean snorts from under the covers, and then peeks his face out over the top.

“You’re such a baby,” Marco informs him, poking his finger critically at what he thinks is Jean’s shoulder through the covers. “A little boredom won’t kill us. At least we’re not on the road.”

“Mr. Look-On-the-Bright-Side Bodt is here,” Jean grumbles, but it’s a teasing tone. “Great.”

Marco gives a bright smile (partially to annoy Jean), before sitting up quickly and practically bouncing on the bed. “I’ve got playing cards!” he declares excitedly. 

There’s a short silence until Jean pushes the covers off and eyes Marco with vague interest. “I can’t sleep anymore,” he admits, “so show me what you’ve got.” 

After showers and a dip into their limited food supply, Marco situates them both on the bed to teach Jean how to play Go Fish.

Jean immediately puts on his game face, much to Marco’s amusement, since it’s obvious he’s already decided he’s going to become the best Go Fish player in the history of the game.

Two hours later, however, Marco is resisting to the urge to echo Jean’s earlier whining about boredom.

“Is this what people did before the invention of the Internet?” Jean groans, collapsing backward against the pillow and letting his hand splay out with his fan of cards.

“Hey!” Marco grins, throwing another card down in the pile between them. “Go Fish is a time honored tradition. You’re just too young to appreciate it.” 

Jean bursts out laughing, rolling his eyes. “I’m two years younger than you, Marco.”

“Three,” Marco corrects smoothly. “I took a year off in between high school and college.” He studies his fan of cards, until realizing he’s piqued Jean’s interest with this tidbit of information when there’s no reply.

“You took a year off?” Jean asks, obviously curious. “To do what?”

Marco sighs a little, not really wanting to tell the embarrassing story.

“I didn’t know what I wanted to do,” he hazards, biting his lip and looking down at his cards intently, “so I worked odd jobs for a year until I figured it out.”

Jean cocks his head to the side with a confused expression. The bed squeaks as he puts down his cards and raises himself up onto one elbow to study Marco’s expression. “Why are you embarrassed about that?”

Marco swallows hard. He’s actually never shared this information with any of his college friends. 

“Well,” he begins softly, picking at a loose thread on the garish bedspread, “it was a little more complicated than that.” He lifts his eyes to look at Jean hesitantly to find he’s being stared at intently. “See, I graduated high school at seventeen.”

“You graduated early?” Jean guesses, sounding completely unsurprised.

“Kind of,” Marco nods. “I finished a semester early, but then realized that I had no idea what I wanted to do. Everyone just kind of expected me to go into law, like the rest of my family.”

“Okay,” Jean prompts, nodding as he pokes absently at the messy pile of cards.

“And then, I came out.”

That earns him a sharp look as Jean’s eyes widen. “Did something bad happen?” he immediately blurts out, then cringes. “Sorry,” he says apologetically, “I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s okay,” Marco interjects with a sigh. “Actually, no, it really didn’t. I don’t have one of those horror stories about coming out—I’m lucky.” He gives a wry laugh and roll of his eyes. “In fact, it was the opposite.”

“How so?” Jean asks, looking fascinated now.

Marco gives a heavy sigh and abandons his cards, too, moving to lie down across from Jean. 

“My mom is really into political activism,” he starts haltingly, “so, when I told her I was gay, she was shocked.” He shrugs a little. “But then, she was thrilled.” He gives Jean a wry look and raise of his eyebrow. “Have you ever been to a Pride Parade? Because I’ve been to at least ten.”

“Oh,” Jean exhales, his eyes wide, “uh, well, that doesn’t sound so bad.”

“My mom also likes to make speeches, and her version of support is, um...” Marco cringes. “Loud and proud.”

Jean moves to lie down, too, but rolls onto his back, turning his head to look at Marco curiously. “Could be worse.”

“Totally,” Marco agrees immediately. “Only... sorry if this sounds bad, or offensive,” he shrugs minutely, dropping his eyes and feeling embarrassed, “but I don’t want to wear it on my sleeve. I’m totally fine with being gay, but I don’t _want_ to make a big deal out of it.” Marco’s aware his voice is starting to adopt a panicked note, but he can’t help it as anxiety immediately floods him. “I know I’m supposed to be some paragon all the time, but...” He makes an irritated, dismissive _tch_ noise. “I just want to live my life. I’m proud, but I don’t _want_ to be loud.”

He immediately sits up, swinging his legs off the bed and wishing he hadn’t told Jean any of it. “You must think I’m such a coward.” He sighs, shaking his head. “I’m going for a walk to get some air. I—” 

“Will you knock that shit off?” Jean interjects gruffly, stopping Marco in his tracks. He turns sharply to look at Jean in surprise.

“Uh...”

Jean stands up, too, an exasperated look on his face. “Will you stop thinking you can predict everyone’s reactions?” he gripes, shaking his head. “You’re such a control freak.”

Marco opens his mouth, and then shuts it again, not knowing whether he should be offended or heartened.

He just grows even more speechless when Jean rounds the bed to wrap both arms around him tightly, and murmur, “You’re so shitty at taking care of yourself,” before falling silent.

“You’re shitty at taking care of yourself, too,” Marco croaks out after a moment, not expecting his throat to tighten with a surge of emotion. He can’t think of anything else to say, though.

Jean just snorts and shakes his head a little where he’s rested it against Marco’s shoulder. “So, your mom took you to one too many parades and pissed you off. Everyone’s entitled to get pissed off once in a while.”

“I never want what I’m supposed to,” Marco whispers, the words spilling out of his mouth unbidden.

“You’re not _supposed_ to want anything,” Jean replies after a short silence, his voice serious. “You want what you want, and that’s it.”

“Since when did you get so good at giving advice?”

That earns a quiet laugh from Jean, throat rumbling pleasantly against Marco’s shoulder.

“Since when did you ever give me a chance to give any?” he retorts in kind. He smooths his hands up and down Marco’s back reassuringly, before drawing away.

Their eyes meet, and Marco knows that his expression must be particularly vulnerable from the way Jean’s eyebrows raise. 

“I freaked out and ran away,” Marco blurts out abruptly. “I ditched my family and disappeared for a week when I was seventeen.” He hangs his head, feeling the shame well up in him he hasn’t allowed himself to feel in years. “I just... left. Didn’t tell anyone where I was going. I don’t even know where I _thought_ I was going.”

Despite his former supportive words, Jean looks shocked. “You just... left?” he asks in disbelief.

“Yeah,” Marco whispers. “It wasn’t about being out—I didn’t lose any friends over it. I just couldn’t take the pressure anymore to be what everyone wanted.”

Jean hums in acknowledgment as he unexpectedly grabs Marco’s hand and asks solemnly, “Is that why your mom buys you fabulous orange capris?”

Marco looks up in surprise to find Jean staring at him with a completely straight face, before his lips quirk and he raises an eyebrow.

“You’re such an asshole,” Marco blurts out, his mouth hanging open.

But then, he can’t help it, and starts to laugh. He laughs even as Jean pulls him down to sit on the edge of the bed and wraps his arms around Marco tightly. He keeps laughing as Jean whispers into his ear that he shouldn’t be so hard on himself, to stop obsessing over the past.

Finally, he calms down, and suddenly feels exhausted and leans his weight against Jean.

“All that stress to be as gay as possible, and now,” Jean murmurs with a snort, “you’re here, stuck in a shitty hotel room during the holidays with your...” His voice trails off as he seemingly searches for the word.

Fuck buddy? Hookup? Friend? Friend with benefits? Future boyfriend?

“With my best friend,” Marco finishes instead, “who also happens to look really hot naked.”

He’s expecting Jean to laugh, but instead, all he gets is a tightening of Jean’s arms and a murmured, “Yeah.”

Marco heaves a deep sigh before pulling away to offer up a tired smile. “Do you want to get food?” 

They end up with the vending machine’s finest cinnamon rolls that would probably survive a nuclear attack, but also, to Marco’s relief, some granola bars Jean had thrown in his bag before they left.

They eat quietly, one of three local television stations playing low in the background, and Marco shifts his gaze to the window, watching the snow continue to fall as their second night sequestered in the motel begins.

“Think tomorrow it’ll stop?” he asks idly, looking over at Jean who’s donned a pair of pajama pants and t-shirt with their school’s insignia on it.

Jean sighs. “No idea, but looks like we’re stuck here for now. Good thing the place is cheap.” He looks around the room, eyes darting from the thick, mustard-yellow drapes to the stained red carpet. “Um, well...” he amends, “worth what it’s worth.” He rolls his eyes, and then focuses back on the TV.

A local broadcaster is in standing in what Marco assumes in the nearby town’s Main Street, being pummeled with snow and attempting to talk over the wind into a microphone.

Marco grins over at Jean. “It’s like _time travel_ ,” he says in a spooky voice, wiggling his fingers, “to the seventies.”

Jean just gives him an evaluative look with a raised eyebrow. “Are you dying from carbon monoxide poisoning?”

“Well, someone has to entertain us, since you’re the least entertaining person on the face of the earth,” Marco pouts, collapsing next to Jean on the bed amidst a pile of scattered playing cards and a few empty water bottles.

Jean just snorts, but apparently forgives the jab at his entertainment skills as he continues to eat his nuclear ration cinnamon bun, propped up by two pillows as he sits and half-watches the TV.

Marco hums sleepily as he lies down, pushing his face next to Jean’s thigh, head on the pillow, and immediately starts to doze off when Jean’s fingers come to stroke through his hair. “TV’s boring,” he mumbles, sighing happily. “But you’re not boring anymore, not when you’re...” His voice starts to trail off, but he forces himself to finish. “Mm, when you’re doing that. Jean, feels nice...”

The last thing he’s aware of is the gentle, slow motions of Jean’s fingers combing through his hair.

The only time he’s ever felt this safe is when he’s been with his family.

= = =

When Marco wakes up again, the room is dark and the TV is off. He’s warm and comfortable, snuggled soundly in the blankets and pressed against something soft; but after a moment, as he regains lucidity, he realizes that he’s snuggled against a pillow. 

The bathroom door is slightly ajar, but the light is off, and the room is very still. Even a glance toward the window yields a sliver of vague, yellow light filtering in through the curtains that have been drawn shut.

He sits up abruptly, looking around wildly in confusion as the blankets fall to his waist; the clock next to the bed reads eight p.m. The entire situation feels like a surreal dream, but he’s convinced he’s awake when cold air hits him. The large, built-in heater underneath the window clicked off sometime when he was asleep, and the entire room is chilly without the blankets.

More importantly, without Jean.

The spot in the bed next to him is cold, and in a panic, he starts to think he hallucinated the entire thing—going to Trost with Jean, getting stuck in the blizzard, card games, falling asleep with his face pressed against Jean’s leg.

And suddenly, it dawns on him: this moment, right now, here alone in a motel room, is what life will be like after graduation. 

He’ll be leaving all his friends, leaving the place he’s called home for the past four years, and letting down his parents, even though they don’t know it yet. It’s doubtful he’ll even be able to move back home if he wanted to, since the house is already crowded enough, and his sisters have been pleased with the two eldest siblings’ absence in terms of who shares what bedroom.

Marco knows he’s panicking, but he can’t help the tears that suddenly start to burn his eyes. It might be the fact that he’s going stir crazy, that he doesn’t know where Jean is, or even that all the fears he’s been harboring are finally coming out when he doesn’t have someone to distract him from his own thoughts.

Just as he’s about to let out an outright sob and hide under the blankets again, though, the door swings open with a loud squeak and a blast of intolerably freezing air gusts into the room. 

Jean appears, stamping off his boots and shivering, wearing his own scarf as well as Marco’s, a pair of jeans, and clutching a plastic shopping bag.

He kicks the door closed quickly behind him, casting a glance over at the bed most likely to see if he’s woken Marco up.

“You’re awake,” he says with a nod, his voice excited. “You’re not going to believe what I forgot I had—” He abruptly cuts himself off as he gets closer and Marco lets out an involuntary sniffle. “Marco?” he asks in surprise. 

“Sorry,” Marco whispers, sitting up in bed, knowing there’s no possible way to describe what just went through his head and why he’s now crying.

“What’s wrong?” Jean asks in concern, immediately setting down the bag and shrugging his jacket off, before moving to sit on the edge of the bed. He leans over to turn on the bedside lamp, and Marco drops his eyes in embarrassment.

“I had a weird dream,” he explains, trying to catch his breath and come up with a rational explanation. “That’s all—no big deal.”

Jean just studies him in the dim light for a minute, and then unexpectedly reaches out to wipe the tears off Marco’s cheek with his thumb. “That sucks,” he replies softly. “Are you okay now?”

Marco doesn’t want to simply pretend he’s fine, but at the same time, he doesn’t even know how to answer the question. What’s important, though, is that this is real and Jean’s with him, at least for now.

“Think I’m going to a little stir crazy,” he finally settles on as a response.

Jean just studies him for a moment, as if knowing there’s more to it than that, but Marco doesn’t feel like budging—not quite yet—and Jean relents.

“I hear you,” he replies in an easy voice, drawing back and patting Marco’s knee through the blanket. “But you’re going to be happy!” he enthuses, grinning. “Because I remembered that I had a bag of food in the car that I was bringing home, since it would’ve gone to waste without anyone in the house.”

Marco’s eyes widen, and he momentarily forgets his anxiety. “You mean... normal food? That hasn’t been sitting in a machine for ten years?”

Jean nods cheerfully, pulling out a loaf of bread and a jar of half-finished peanut butter.

“Also,” he says, smiling at Marco as he walks over to where he’s set something down on the window sill next to the door, “I got you a present—happy holidays.”

Then, as if by magic, he produces what Marco thinks must be a mirage: a steaming cup of what he can already smell and recognize as coffee.

“How’d you...” he trails off, staring at the cup. “Where...”

“Front desk,” Jean declares, a hint of pride in his voice. “I stopped by on the off-chance since I was already out there, and lo and behold...”

He hands the cup to Marco who immediately sits up, inhaling the blissful scent of the coffee. It’s hot, and although not particularly strong, definitely a step up from instant.

“Thank you, Jean,” he practically moans, taking a sip and sighing happily. “You’re the best.”

“You want a sandwich?”

Marco sneaks a look up from the rim of his cup, and then he smiles a little, feeling almost shy. “You know,” he starts softly, hesitating, but then deciding to finish his thought, “you’re the only one who’s ever, uh... taken care of me.” 

Jean just shrugs minutely, but there’s a slight blush crawling up his neck when he turns away to assemble two peanut butter sandwiches. “Well,” he finally replies quietly, opening the jar and dipping in a plastic knife to slather peanut butter onto a slice of whole wheat bread, “someone’s gotta do it, right?”

He turns to look over at his shoulder at Marco expectantly, smiling a little as if unsure of how the statement will be received.

Marco just returns the smile, looking down to study the loud bedspread with great interest. Suddenly, a peanut butter sandwich appears in his line of vision on a napkin, and Marco accepts gratefully, practically inhaling it in three ambitious bites.

They eat their haphazard dinner in silence, but it’s comfortable, and Marco feels reassured when Jean disposes of their napkin-plates without being asked. The strange, otherworldly sense of loneliness that had possessed him before is thankfully kept at bay with Jean so nearby.

Jean sinks onto the edge of the bed where Marco is sitting cross-legged, and he looks over at Marco curiously. It’s obvious he’s still wondering what was going on before, but he knows to leave well enough alone for the moment.

“We’re trapped,” he says suddenly, making a face and rolling his eyes. Marco starts to laugh, groaning as he places his empty coffee cup on the nightstand, and then reclines onto his back to stare at the cracked, white ceiling.

“Whatever,” Marco replies with a little shrug of his shoulders, folding both hands behind his head and in a notably better mood since he obtained coffee. “At least we’re together.”

Jean immediately lands next to him, pressing close with a devious grin as he pushes bottom of Marco’s sleep pants up with his foot, which Marco figures out the reason behind as he feels cold, wet denim assault his bare shins.

“Hey!” he yelps. “No fair!”

“Just paying you back,” Jean laughs, holding Marco in place as he tangles their legs in outwardly cruel delight. “Pretty cold, huh?”

Marco yelps and twists, trying his best not to laugh as Jean assaults him with cold, wet denim and then a series of _very_ unfair kisses pressed in quick succession against Marco’s shoulder that are obviously more of a victory dance than out of affection.

“You suck!” Marco squeaks, uncaring that he sounds like he’s ten. “Jean, you’re the worst... and... mm...”

Jean is busy turning the victory spite kisses into real kisses, and Marco gives up on struggling as he pulls Jean on top of him.

“At least we won’t be bored,” he whispers, smiling against Jean’s mouth as their lips meet.

Jean smiles into the kiss, too, and Marco feels his heart speed up as their fingers link together. 

They make short work of each other’s clothes, stripping off wet jeans, sleep pants, t-shirts, and underwear with some fumbling and laughter, until Jean is panting with his mouth pressed against Marco’s neck.

Marco closes his eyes and lets go of self-awareness completely, arching his back as they rut against each other. His palms are splayed tensely against Jean’s shoulder blades, and every time Jean’s body flexes, Marco lets out a breathless moan.

“Fuck, you feel so good,” Jean murmurs as he presses a few frantic kisses where he’s rested his mouth, repositioning his body so he can get a hand between them. “Marco...”

“Ah, _god_ , Jean,” Marco cries as Jean carefully grasps both of their erections and starts to stroke. It’s nearly an out of body experience, as if he’s watching himself, surprised at his own ability to let go.

“Hold on,” Jean says, pulling away regretfully and leaning over the bed to sweep his hand along the floor near their bags, undoubtedly looking for lube which he locates in a blessedly short amount of time.

Marco tips his head back, spreading his legs apart slightly, and gives Jean a lazy little smile as the tube clicks open.

“You’re really hot,” Jean remarks suddenly, looking at Marco with a distracted gaze. “Um,” he says, immediately dropping his eyes with a blush and nervous laugh, “but I mean, duh, right?”

Before Marco can answer, Jean presses their mouths together again and reaches back down to wrap his hand around both their cocks.

Marco’s mind promptly goes blank, lost in the shrill squeak of the mattress, the feeling of Jean’s slick hand deftly stroking them to completion together, the faint smell of Jean’s aftershave intermingled with sex, and the whisper of nippy kisses being trailed down his throat.

The entire sensory combination is heady and intoxicating, and he whimpers sharply, followed by a crescendoing slur of Jean’s name as he starts to orgasm. 

“Fuck, Marco,” Jean growls in counterpart, “come for me.”

Marco can’t even speak, only capable of doing as asked as he feels like his soul is spilling out of him—somehow both a release as well as a loss as he lets go—and he falls into Jean’s hands.

He feels Jean start to come at the same time as something hot and liquid hits his stomach. As Jean relaxes with a sated sigh, Marco hugs him close, ignoring the fact that the action will make things messy.

“Marco?” Jean asks curiously in a winded voice, obviously confused by the needy movement.

“Can we just stay like this for a little while?” Marco whispers, clinging to Jean so tightly now it’s almost embarrassing. He knows he’s going to be questioned later, that Jean will want to know what’s going on, but right now, all he wants is for Jean to be as close as possible.

“Sure,” Jean replies softly, rearranging their limbs slightly so they’re both on their sides, facing each other. He does take a moment to grab a few tissues for rudimentary clean-up, but Marco can’t bring himself to care about a little stickiness.

Nonetheless, Jean doesn’t question the request and simply lies there, his hand curled around Marco’s hip, thumb stroking reassuringly. There’s nothing like the feeling of Jean’s deft fingers against his skin for Marco, and that hasn’t changed since the first time.

“Are you okay?” Jean finally asks.

“I’ve just got a lot on my mind,” Marco sighs, trying to retain his composure. “Sorry for being so...”

“You don’t need to apologize,” Jean replies gently, sliding his fingers up to stroke along Marco’s side idly.

“Wow,” Marco says, giving a little, self-deprecating laugh, “all I’ve done today is teach you to play Go Fish and tell a sad, pathetic story, all while stuck in a blizzard in a claustrophobic hotel room.” He shakes his head, not meeting Jean’s eyes. “What a great holiday vacation.”

There’s a small stretch of silence, but Jean doesn’t falter, still stroking his fingers tenderly over Marco’s ribs, until eventually rising to trace along the light smattering of freckles across Marco’s shoulders.

Marco can’t help but smile a little, remembering Jean’s awkward first confession about how much he liked them, and he hears Jean give a knowing little chuckle in return.

“Do you know why I asked you to come with me?” he asks into the quiet room, still dragging fingertips over Marco’s shoulders slowly, as if memorizing the patterns of freckles.

“Um,” Marco begins uncertainly, “because you like me?”

That earns a louder laugh out of Jean, and then he pulls away to tilt Marco’s chin up.

“No, shit, Captain Obvious,” he replies with a roll of his eyes, but then belies his snarky response by pressing a soft kiss against Marco’s cheekbone. “I don’t care where the hell we are,” he declares firmly, frowning slightly as he gives Marco a critical look. “I just like being with you.” He shakes his head, eyes taking on a more intense light that actually takes Marco by surprise. “I don’t care if we accidentally fell into the pits of hell and had to play Go Fish for eternity.” He reaches out to rest his hand on Marco’s shoulder and squeezes gently. “But I want to do it with you, and I don’t give a fuck how many sad stories you want to tell, okay?”

Marco just stares at him with wide eyes, and Jean stares back, until breaking the silence.

“I thought you had a 4.0 GPA, but you can’t even use the language you’re majoring in?” Jean ribs, smirking a little. “Did you fail your last exam or something?”

“Hey! I stayed up for two days studying for that exam, and I aced it!” Marco finally blurts out, the insinuation that he skipped an exam wrenching him out of his stupor.

Jean starts to laugh, pulling him close and breaking the intense gaze. “Are you having fun?” he asks after a moment.

“Well, uh,” Marco replies, knowing the answer already and feeling all the more ridiculous for it, “blizzards aren’t fun, right?”

“I’m having fun,” Jean replies simply, ignoring the deflection. “I mean, yeah, I wanted to see my mom and blizzards do suck...” His voice trails off, and the bed squeaks slightly as he adjusts his position. Marco hears a few rogue playing cards hit the floor, and the feeling of a pair of wet, discarded jeans brushing against his ankle shock him into sharper coherence.

“Yeah,” Marco amends in a quiet voice. “I’m having fun, because I’m with you,” he finally admits.

It shouldn’t be such a difficult thing to admit that you’re having fun with your best friend, even if it’s in absurd circumstances. But there’s more to it than that at this point, and Marco knows it’s obvious to both of them.

“Hey,” Jean prompts gently, almost a whisper, like he’s about to tell a secret at summer camp, “are you thinking about the future? And it’s freaking you out?”

Marco takes a shivery sigh, hoping Jean doesn’t hear it, and exhales slowly. The answer is yes in many ways, but he figures he might as well be honest if Jean’s taking the time and gumption to ask.

“Yeah,” he replies, not elaborating. 

“Okay,” Jean replies, his tone completely nonjudgmental and calm. “We’re on vacation, so stop thinking about that shit.”

_We’re on vacation._

There’s something about how effortlessly Jean says it that leaves Marco with a bittersweet feeling welling in his chest, but he forces himself to smile.

“True,” he agrees, deciding that the suggestion is actually a pretty good idea. There’s no point in being a downer. “Well,” he says, trying for optimism, “uh, is it late enough to go to bed? I feel like there’s no night and day anymore.”

Jean snorts and gives a huge sigh, pulling away now that Marco’s approved the change in attitude, before collapsing onto his back dramatically.

“You just woke up a little while ago,” he observes.

Marco grins and shrugs. “Yeah, I’m not tired at all.” Jean eyes the playing cards, but then Marco also throws himself down dramatically, flailing his wrist across his forehead in a swoon. “Just no more Go Fish, please!” 

Jean grins in response and nods enthusiastically, before casting a glance down at his own stomach. “Um,” he grimaces, “shower?”

“Sure,” Marco replies with a resolute nod. “Sounds awesome, although I don’t know how big it is.”

Jean blinks in confusion at Marco’s enthusiasm about a shared shower, and then Marco flushes as he realizes his response was misinterpreted.

“Oh, you meant...” Jean says with widened eyes. “Okay, I’ve just never...”

Marco holds up his hands defensively. “No!” he exclaims. “I didn’t mean together if that’s weird. I just—”

“Yeah!” Jean interjects, laughing a little. His face sobers, though, as he asks, “Can we?”

“Sure,” Marco says with a little smile.

It seems like a great idea initially, but the shower is a small cubicle that clearly isn’t made for two people, much less two full grown men.

Nonetheless, Marco’s determined to make it work, since he happens to take great pleasure in a nice, hot shower—it’s the one time his mind goes totally blank, and that’s exactly what he needs right now.

When they collide awkwardly for the fourth time, though, as Marco turns to grab the soap and Jean reaches for the motel-brand shampoo, Jean finally huffs.

“You’re just too... tall,” he grunts, and then adds, “and a blanket hog.” But as Marco moves to retort, he feels a pair of strong hands land on his shoulders and squeeze slightly.

“C’mon,” Jean instructs, “you stand still, and let me do the maneuvering.”

Marco’s about to argue that he’s more than capable of keeping track of his own limbs as well as Jean’s, but then all he can do is groan as Jean’s fingers press into his shoulder blades.

“Mm,” he slurs, dropping his head forward immediately, “no fair.”

“Totally fair,” Jean contradicts, massaging at Marco’s shoulders. “You’re just a pain.”

Marco doesn’t have the strength of will to contradict that observation, and he can only shrug which earns a chuckle out of Jean.

He doesn’t move after that, just letting Jean rub the kinks and aches out of his shoulders, leaning bonelessly against the shower wall. Between the spray of hot water and Jean’s strong touch, even though only a cheap, yellow shower liner divides them from the rest of the world, Marco’s able to completely forget everything else. All that exists here are Jean’s hands, a cloud of steam, and warmth.

They have to get out eventually, and dry off with stiffly starched hotel towels, before making their way back to the room. Marco doesn’t bother putting on clothes, reclining against the bed naked and bending his knees up, feeling totally relaxed.

Jean is busy pulling on fresh pants and a t-shirt, and Marco closes his eyes. He has no intention of falling asleep again, but the opportunity to lounge around naked is one he’s not taking for granted.

“I have an idea,” Jean says suddenly.

Marco’s eyes pop open as he looks over in surprise, and to his amusement and a flutter in his chest he tries to ignore, realizes that Jean’s wearing a very familiar t-shirt.

“Nice shirt,” Marco deadpans, his lips lifting in a smile as he waits for Jean to catch on.

Jean looks down, seemingly baffled by the comment, smoothing his hands over the plain grey t-shirt he’s pulled on.

“What?” he replies in confusion, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Look at the back,” Marco answers mysteriously, laughing a little.

Jean raises an eyebrow, staring as if Marco’s lost it, but ventures into the bathroom to look in the mirror.

Marco waits for the realization, and then grins as Jean reads aloud slowly, “Jinae... Track Department... _oh_.” He walks back out of the bathroom and faces Marco with a sheepish expression, slight color in his cheeks. “Sorry, it must’ve gotten mixed in with my stuff.”

“That’s okay,” Marco replies with a shrug, trying to make light of it and not think too hard about how good Jean looks in his clothes. “Wear it.”

“Can I wear your letterman jacket, too?” Jean deadpans, shifting his hips and pinching the shirt critically between his fingers. Marco can see he’s fighting not to smile and snorts.

“Only if I can go to prom with you,” Marco retorts, pushing his voice up into a higher octave.

“I’m already wearing your track shirt,” Jean points out, looking ruffled and swooning. “So, where’s my corsage?”

“Where’s my...” Marco falters, putting his hand over his face as he starts to laugh at their absurdity, “...my _art_ shirt?”

“Hey!” Jean cries, pointing at Marco in mock outrage. “I played sports in high school!”

“What’d you play?” Marco challenges.

“Um, volley... baseball,” comes the stammer. Then, an abrupt, “Both.”

“Volleybaseball, huh?” Marco laughs, rolling onto his side, enjoying the feeling of the sheets that are still twisted from where they’d abandoned the bed for the shower. “Sorry, I don’t believe you.”

Jean groans, plopping down on the edge of the bed to sit next to Marco and reaching over to rub his fingers over an ankle. “God,” he remarks idly, “you really do have freckles everywhere.”

“Did you know you’re only the millionth person to point that out?”

Jean swats him in the shin, and Marco grins at him. “Jean?” he asks, eyebrows raising.

“Yeah?”

“I think we’re going crazy.”

“I think you’re right,” Jean agrees, shaking his head. “And I also think more Go Fish is going to push me over the edge.”

“Wait!” Marco exclaims, sitting up in excitement. “What was your idea before?”

“Oh,” Jean replies, looking away immediately and standing up to fiddle with the TV remote, “um, it was sort of stupid.”

Now Marco’s interest is completely piqued, and he stares at Jean expectantly. “Well, it’s either whatever you were going to say, or Go Fish. Your choice.”

Jean immediately holds up his hands defensively, giving an emphatic, horrified shake of his head. “Anything but that.” He sighs, biting his lip in a gesture that is definitely _not cute_ , and shifting his hips in agitation. “Okay,” he finally concedes, “I was going to say... I could, um...” He trails off, swallowing hard. “I could draw you.”

He immediately shakes his head and rolls his eyes, obviously somewhat mortified at his own suggestion; nonetheless, Marco can’t hide his delight.

“You want to draw me?” he asks eagerly.

“I draw you all the time,” Jean blurts out, eyes widening immediately as he says it. “Uh, I mean, not in a stalker way or something.”

“I’d love it if you drew me,” Marco replies confidently, ignoring Jean’s embarrassment. When all he receives is a skeptical expression, he sweetens the pot by adding, “Better than Go Fish, right?”

That wins Jean over, and he makes a sad little noise that sounds like he just got pushed out of the sandbox on the playground.

“Fair,” he finally agrees, turning to fish around in his bag for his sketchbook.

Marco watches, eyeing the sketchbook as it emerges with intense curiosity. It’s become obvious that Jean spends a lot of time drawing, and judging from what Marco had seen by accident that one time at the coffee shop, he’s also pretty good. 

However, it’s not the fact that Jean’s art is _good_ that fascinates Marco, but rather how much pleasure he obviously takes in doing it, and how he never shares it with anyone.

“Do you really draw me all the time?” Marco asks, not bothering to be subtle. Jean generally responds to straightforward questions better than vague inquiries, because he’ll decide quickly if he’s going to answer or not.

His eyes widen, but at least he doesn’t immediately shut down the conversation. Marco tries to look nonchalant about it, smiling warmly as if it’s an ordinary question, which earns a less cornered expression from Jean.

“Well,” he starts hesitantly, pulling a small chair from the corner of the room over to sit a few feet away from the bed, “not just you exactly. Uh, more like, parts of you.”

Marco gives a teasing smile which immediately elicits a defensive look, but then Jean just snorts when he realizes Marco’s just poking fun. “What ‘parts’ do you draw exactly?” he asks, pursing his lips.

Jean rolls his eyes in a long-suffering gesture. “You’re sick.”

“Birds of feather,” Marco retorts, going so far as to wink and grin, before rolling onto his back. It’s a relief to feel relaxed and fluid; the shower and Jean’s impromptu massage helped his mood immensely. “So, how should I lie?”

“If you make a fucking Titanic joke,” Jean warns, “I’m getting the cards, and we’re playing Go Fish.”

Marco clamps his lips together and points at his mouth, shaking his head in terror. That earns a triumphant grin out of Jean, and he nods decisively. “Good,” he declares.

“So, really, how should I lie?” Marco asks again after a few moments, suddenly feeling a little self-conscious. “Uh, should I put on clothes?”

“Nope,” Jean says, sticking a pencil between his teeth and flipping open the sketchbook. Intriguingly, it seems he’s almost to the last page.

“Should I turn on another lamp?”

“Nope.”

“Should I smile?” 

“Stop asking questions and just let me draw,” Jean rebukes, leaning forward to nudge Marco reprovingly with the eraser-end of his pencil. “Besides, I’m not drawing your entire body.”

“Are you drawing my—”

“No,” Jean says flatly. “I’m drawing your hands.”

“My _hands_?” Marco asks in disbelief.

“I suck at faces,” Jean explains simply, not offering to elaborate when Marco just stares at him. 

Marco very much wants to say he doesn’t think Jean sucks at faces whatsoever, given what he’d seen, but that would involve admitting he’d seen Jean’s sketches. Even if it was by accident, he knows it wouldn’t earn him any favors. 

“Okay,” Marco finally agrees with a shrug. “Um, do you want me to do something special with them?”

“Nope.”

Marco grunts and frowns, not liking this arrangement since he has literally no direction except to lie there, but he does as asked. After a few minutes, though, the scratch of the pencil across paper and Jean’s puzzled expressions as he studies Marco’s hands—one currently splayed out across the bed, the other resting against ribs—is even more transfixing than getting a peek at the art itself.

Jean is completely consumed with concentration, looking back and forth between the drawing and Marco, and seems perfectly content.

At some point, Marco starts as Jean flips the page of the sketchbook and then continues fluidly onto the next one.

“Can I move?” Marco asks, since he’s starting to feel a little stiff.

“Sure,” Jean replies, pausing the flurried motions of his hand. 

“Any suggestions?”

Jean considers him for a moment, before nodding slowly. “Uh, can you sit up and...” Marco smiles a little at how much interest Jean is taking in this as he vacates his chair, lying the sketchbook down behind him to arrange Marco’s limbs.

“Here,” he says, tugging at Marco to sit up, “and then lean like this, with your head in your hand... yeah, like that.” He finishes with a satisfied nod, as Marco ends up with his legs crossed (still blissfully uncaring that he’s completely naked), elbow balanced against his knee as he leans forward with his chin resting in his palm.

“Do I look like The Thinker?” he asks with a playful quirk of his eyebrow, smiling a little.

“You’re already the thinker,” Jean retorts, stepping back to retake his seat in the vinyl chair. “No thinking allowed. Just sit there and look cute.”

“You think I’m cute?” Marco sings.

“Shut up.” The blush that crawls up Jean’s neck makes Marco want to abandon their art project for kissing, but given that they’re going to snowed in for at least another day, there’s plenty of time for that.

They remain in companionable silence after that, the scritch-scratch of Jean’s pencil becoming a soothing sound as Marco watches Jean watching him. It could easily become uncomfortably intense, but somehow, it doesn’t. Jean looks completely at ease, and Marco finds that after an hour or so, his eyes are beginning to droop again.

Jean is on his third page at this point, and Marco’s begun to grow more and more mystified at what exactly Jean’s done with three pages of sketching.

“Can I see it yet?” he asks impatiently, finally sitting up to peek at the sketchbook.

“Who said you could see at all?” Jean replies, immediately hugging the sketchbook to his chest.

“Not fair,” Marco says with a shake of his head, wagging his finger. “My hands, so I get to see.”

Jean grumbles over that argument, but doesn’t contradict it. He frowns at Marco mildly, but then slowly releases his grip on the sketchbook.

“Here,” he says, flipping to the page he’d started on, “look. But don’t look at the beginning—it’s too embarrassing.”

“What could be so embarrassing?” Marco asks as he accepts the sketchbook eagerly. “Are you drawing porn or something?”

Jean groans, slouching forward as he hides his face in his hands, though Marco’s not sure whether it’s due to the fact that the sketchbook has been revealed or if Jean really is drawing porn.

He’s going with the former.

As Marco focuses on the drawings, though, his breath catches and all other thoughts are completely erased from his mind.

“Wow, Jean,” he says softly, staring at a series of loose, gestural sketches of his own hands and fingers. 

It’s not the accuracy that floors him, though, but the fact that Jean hasn’t just made the same sketch over and over to get it right. Instead, there are a few small drawings of Marco’s hands in the stationary position in which they’d started, and then he’d elaborated, drawing them from different angles, in different poses. Marco even recognizes a few of his own hand gestures, usually made when he’s talking animatedly about something, or trying to soothe someone.

It seems that Jean knows Marco’s hands better than Marco at this point.

He flips the page to the next series, and it’s the same—at least twenty studies of his hands doing different things, and accurate right down to the three darker freckles on the back of his left wrist.

“Like I said,” Jean croaks, startling Marco from his intense study of the sketches, “embarrassing.”

Marco doesn’t answer, because for some reason he can’t even begin to explain, his throat is tight with emotion.

He flips to the third and final page, and then bites his lip as he sees that Jean’s pencil had finally just started to creep into other areas. In the last few small sketches, Marco sees his own fingers curled around his jaw—a very slight line, as if Jean had been too scared to even attempt his face.

“These are really nice,” Marco finally says softly, forcing his tone to remain even. “I love them.”

Jean laughs nervously, giving a self-conscious, dismissive shrug of his shoulders and brushing off the compliment.

“Thanks,” he replies simply, stretching out his hand to reclaim the sketchbook. He looks about ready to self-combust as he stares tensely at the drawings.

Marco hands it back carefully, and asks diplomatically, “Have you ever drawn my face?” He studies Jean closely, wondering what the response will be. “I know you said you suck at faces, but have you ever tried?”

He knows very well that the answer is yes, but Marco’s not going to force Jean to share drawings and information if he really doesn’t want to.

“No,” Jean replies firmly, closing the sketchbook and shoving it back into his bag. “I don’t have a lot of time to draw, anyway.”

Another fact that Marco knows isn’t true, but he’s not going to push it.

He just smiles, holding out his hand to Jean with a warm expression. “Well,” he concludes, “that was a really good idea, and thank you for letting me see.”

Jean clears his throat awkwardly, but he accepts Marco’s hand anyway.

“You know my hands better than me,” he says softly as Jean sits down on the edge of the bed, fingers interlinked.

There’s a slight hesitation, and then Jean pulls his hand back with another slight shrug. “I’ll be right back—I need to wash the pencil off my hands,” he explains, looking self-conscious. 

Marco sighs quietly, but then to his surprise, Jean turns back around just as he reaches the bathroom door. “I’ve been drawing your hands for a long time,” he says quickly, before ducking into the bathroom and closing the door behind him to get ready for bed.

Marco just stares at the door for a moment in surprise, before looking down at his hands curiously. They’re not that interesting, all things said and done, but for some reason, they seem to fascinate Jean.

The bathroom door swings open again, startling Marco out of his thoughts, and Jean appears wearing only the track t-shirt and a pair of boxers.

“Are we tired yet?” he asks.

Marco laughs and shimmies over, pulling the blankets down invitingly on Jean’s side. “I am,” he nods.

Once the lights are out, they settle down together, and Jean immediately spoons up behind Marco, wrapping an arm around him.

“We’re out of food,” he says quietly, burying his face in the back of Marco’s hair. “I think we have to venture out tomorrow if we can’t leave.”

“It’s still snowing,” Marco sighs, shaking his head.

“We’re going to have to go into town,” Jean replies in dread. “I hope they don’t capture and eat us, since we’re in the land of hill people.”

Marco laughs under his breath, and then he blushes a little as Jean grabs his hand. Before now, he would’ve just thought of it as any other affectionate gesture. But now it’s taken on a new meaning, especially when Jean pulls one of them to his lips and kisses Marco’s palm very softly.

“Hey, Jean?” 

“Yeah?” Jean answers through a yawn.

Marco waits a perfect two beats of silence, until whispering solemnly, “You can draw my hands like you draw your French girls any time.”

Marco is assaulted with a pillow for a good ten minutes, before crying for mercy through his laughter and begging Jean to let him go where he’s been pinned to the bed.

“I’m locking you outside, Bodt,” Jean threatens as he lets Marco go, obviously trying not to laugh, “to freeze to death with the other passengers.” 

“Hypocrite!” Marco cries, pointing at Jean accusingly even as he wipes the tears from his eyes. “You totally— _mph_.” He’s silenced with a kiss, and he can’t even get out a comeback before he can barely speak.

Contrary to Jean’s claim, Marco is not locked outside to freeze.

They fall asleep together in a pile of sated limbs and contented sighs, and as Jean snuggles up next to him again, Marco has to bite his lip again to stop from saying what he’s getting closer to saying every time the fall asleep together.

= = =

“Okay,” Jean states resolutely, looking at Marco with grave seriousness, “it’s time.”

Marco nods in solidarity, setting his jaw. “We’re wearing all the snow stuff we have.”

Jean nods as if he’s ready to go into the trenches. “These sneakers have lasted for two years, so I’m hoping they survive the drifts.”

They just stare at each other.

“So, there’s really no chance of driving, right?” Jean asks in a much less confident voice.

Marco groans and throws himself onto the bed. “You’re lowering my morale!” he complains, bouncing on the mattress.

“Marco! We’re out of food, and unless you want to eat more cinnamon buns, we have to go into town!”

Marco groans again, throwing his forearm over his face. “I swear, ‘town’ is going to be like three buildings.”

“Well,” Jean replies curtly, rolling his eyes as Marco sneaks a look at him, “it’s better than _one_ vending machine, now isn’t it?”

He grumbles and gets to his feet, but he gives himself credit for following Jean out into the cold.

The hotel owner had assured them that it was “only about half a mile, give or take a mile” to “town,” but this was not the type of small town Marco is familiar with. Jinae is the type of place people either own “second homes” or where intellectuals live who have been there forever, even if they’re not wealthy. Although the Bodts are in the second category, it’s still not truly “rural.”

Thankfully, it’s at least stopped snowing. 

The sign they pass on their trek into town along the “road” (which has actually be converted into Antarctica with nary a vehicle to be seen) advertises the population as being two-hundred.

“If we die,” Marco shouts as they struggle along through the deep snow lining what he assumes is the side of the road, “I _will_ eat you.”

“You’re too much of a princess to eat me,” Jean retorts over the wind.

Of course, he immediately shoots Marco a shit eating, affectionate grin over his shoulder, and Marco just rolls his eyes.

“Asshole,” he mutters into his scarf.

“I heard that!”

It’s only about a mile in total until they reach town, which, as Marco predicted, is about three buildings.

Nonetheless, to their collective surprise, one of the shops is indeed open, and it boldly advertises hot food.

They both stand at the top of the road, almost afraid to descend into the main street populated by three buildings.

“Is that a snow mirage?” Marco whispers to Jean, who’s standing by his side at the top of the snow hill.

“No,” Jean replies just as quietly, “that’s a neon sign. But who knows if zombies have taken at this point. Snow zombies.”

“You’re creepy,” Marco whispers.

“You’re creepier,” Jean retorts.

“Last one to the neon zombie store buys hot food,” Marco shouts, and then launches himself down the hill like a kid with a sled.

“Hey!” Jean cries in outrage behind him, immediately sprinting to catch up.

They run neck in neck until almost the bottom, until Jean gains the lead and whoops in triumph as he hits the rickety porch before Marco.

“Not so good at track in the snow, are you?!” he exclaims, pointing at Marco and grinning widely, dusting the snow off his pants. “Jinae and its second homes have made you weak!”

“Are you seriously doing a weird victory dance right now?” Marco deadpans as Jean hops from foot to foot.

“No, my feet are fucking cold,” he hisses, scowling comedically and pulling Marco by the hand into the store.

They’re greeted by a middle-aged man with a pipe behind a rotary register, staring at them, obviously having watched their escapades from the window.

“Uh,” he says, cocking his head to the side, “you boys lost?”

Jean pulls off his hat and grimaces. “Kinda,” he replies. “On our way to Trost, and holed up at that motel down the road.”

“Ah,” the man says, raising a bushy eyebrow and looking them over, “city boys.”

“Oh, no, I’m from Jinae,” Marco nods, smiling as he pulls off his hat, too.

The man snorts, giving him a critical gaze, and rolls his eyes. “City boys,” he repeats simply.

Jean rolls his eyes at Marco, too, and nods. “Yeah, you might say that.”

Marco doesn’t argue; he has enough self awareness to recall what “second homes” mean, even if his family doesn’t have one and Jinae wasn’t always that way.

“So, what are you looking for?”

“Hot food?” Marco replies hopefully, attempting to be as polite as possible. “Uh, sir? If you have it?”

“Sorry,” the man replies, obviously sincere, “grill’s on the fritz. Ever since the storm knocked out the gas line, we got no gas, no heat except for the electric space heater.”

He studies the two of them, and Marco tries to look upstanding.

“You boys need the wifi?” he guesses after a moment.

Marco’s eyes widen, and Jean laughs softly. “Yes, please,” he replies.

The man laughs a little. “Just buy somethin’ besides gum.” 

“Do you take cards?” Marco asks earnestly.

“C’mon, _country_ boy,” Jean groans, pulling Marco by the jacket sleeve as the cashier just laughs again.

Once they both check texts and e-mail—both relieved to not find anything urgent, though Jean does have to pull Marco away from an errant e-mail accidentally sent from a professor to his personal account—and then wander around the store, looking for provisions.

“Hey,” Jean laughs quietly as they browse the aisles, pulling random food items down that look more promising than the vending machine, “do these look good on me?”

Marco turns, and starts to laugh as Jean dons a pair of gag glasses with googly eyes on coiled springs.

“Yeah,” he replies, struggling to keep his voice flat, “they really bring out... _your eyes._ ”

“Oh my god,” Jean groans, rolling his eyes as Marco laughs at his own joke, “you are so cheesy. Why do I put up with you?”

“I don’t know,” Marco replies through is laughter, reaching out to pull Jean closer solely out of habit.

Just as he’s about to press a kiss to Jean’s cheek, though, he stops, and immediately takes a step back, cheeks burning.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, looking down in embarrassment. “I uh, know that...”

Jean smiles at him a little. It’s shy, but he points at the wall behind him.

Marco’s eyes grow impossibly wide as he spots a small rainbow sticker, with a yellow and blue HRC one underneath of it.

“Oh,” he replies softly.

“So,” Jean murmurs, pulling Marco close again, “you think those look good on me?”

Marco smiles, his face softer as he smiles at Jean. “Yeah,” he replies, and then leans down slightly to press a small kiss to Jean’s mouth.

They part quickly, both blushing, but then Marco grins as he turns to the side and finds a fake pair of glasses and plastic nose attached to a moustache.

“If I wear this,” he says, forcing his face into a serious expression, “do you think I never have to show up to class again, and can lead my life as a private investigator?”

“No,” Jean replies, raising a perfectly solemn eyebrow.

Marco immediately breaks down into giggles, and Jean rolls his eyes as he plucks the glasses off Marco’s face.

“You’re the worst at keeping a straight face,” he declares, and the smile on his face as he says it is so fond and warm, Marco feels another blush rush into his cheeks.

“You are so bad at lying,” Jean murmurs, reaching up suddenly to stroke the hair away from Marco’s forehead.

He immediately drops his hand, face burning, as Marco’s eyes widen.

“Sorry,” he says softly, “that was kind of cheesy.”

“No, it wasn’t,” Marco replies in a soft voice. “It was nice.”

They just stare at each other for a moment, and then both turn away at the same time, clearing their throats and separating to look for proper rations like the practical adults they are.

They end up at the counter with two cans of pears (Marco), two boxes of raisins (Jean), two cans of tuna fish (one each), and a can of chicken (Marco).

“Chicken comes in a _can_?” Jean queries, turning his head sideways to stare at the can skeptically.

Marco raises his hands to illustrate his blamelessness. “It’s chicken!” he insists, shaking his head.

“Kid’s right,” the cashier confirms. “It’s chicken, even if it is in a can.”

Jean raises an eyebrow. “Are you sure it won’t kill us?”

Since the cashier is not actually that sure, they put the chicken-in-a-can back on the shelf and take the rest of the food with them.

Much to Marco’s delight, however, the man behind the counter also reveals a frozen food stock that’s most likely about to go bad and isn’t officially saleable at this point that he’d buried in a snow bank out back for his own use.

“You throw these tenders in a microwave,” he says, nodding sagely as he hands the box over to Marco, “it’ll at least taste like something hot.”

Marco feels his heart thump faster over the promise of microwavable chicken meal, even if they do have to venture into the crotchety hotel manager’s office, and gives the cashier a radiant smile.

“Thank you,” he says, putting on his brightest smile and most boy scout-ish freckled expression. Marco knows his strengths.

“You got a looker here,” the cashier says to Jean, motioning at Marco. “That’ll be ten dollars even.”

Marco knows his face is scarlet by the time Jean pulls him out of the store, hauling their can and frozen tender meal in a bag with them, and he’s still dazed by the time they’re walking back along the road.

“Did... did the old timey shop owner just say I was hot?” he asks finally, looking over at Jean who looks like he’s been staving off laughter for at least ten minutes.

“I don’t know, Marco,” Jean replies with a totally straight face.

“He totally did.” 

They walk in silence for a few minutes, until Marco stops in the middle of the road, his mouth hanging open.

“The bumblefuck gay shopkeep just said you have a looker!” he exclaims, staring at Jean.

Jean raises an eyebrow, starting to grin. “And?”

“You didn’t defend my honor?!” Marco demands, trying not to laugh as he bends to pretend to adjust his boot.

“Are you a fair maiden in a Disney movie?” Jean retorts, snorting as he shifts the bag from hand to the other.

He’s not expecting the snowball that hits him square in the shoulder, and actually squeaks.

“Hey!” he cries in response to Marco’s unexpected snowball assault, dropping the bag in the snow and immediately diving to make a snowball of his own.

The entire conversation degenerates into a haphazard snowball war between two city boys vying for snow dominance, although Marco has a leg up since he’s been pelted by snowballs for his entire life by seven siblings who—as Margit always put it—“aim to maim.”

They end up far away from the road, and Jean dives behind a half broken down fence to dodge Marco’s onslaught of snowballs.

“No fair!” he yells from his cover. “You can make those an inhuman speed!”

“I lived through twenty-three years of sibling onslaught!” Marco shouts back, launching another snowball in Jean’s direction.

He knows it hits by the way Jean an agonized yelp, and then a curse. 

Then, there’s only silence. The wind blows, some snow from the drifts curl up, and Marco blinks.

“Jean?” he asks curiously, immediately growing serious and standing up.

Still no answer, and he takes a few steps toward the fence that Jean had ducked behind.

“Jean?” he asks more fervently, jogging a little and hopping over the fence to look around wildly. “Jean! Where—oof!” 

Marco scowls as Jean tackles him. “You are such an asshole!” he hisses even as they tumble down together, Jean laughing the entire way.

“Why?” he taunts as Marco ends up on his back with Jean on top of him, gloating. “Because I didn’t answer for five seconds?”

Marco pouts, biting his lip. It probably really was only five seconds.

“Maybe,” he mutters.

And then Jean’s lips are on his, and all is right with the world again.

They kiss for a long time, just lying in the snow, Jean’s mouth moving more slowly than Marco can ever remember. Nothing feels cold, the snow doesn’t matter through his thick jacket, and all Marco can feel is Jean’s lips, then his teeth as he nips at Marco’s bottom lip very gently. 

The hill they’ve end up on is completely devoid of civilization, save them, and a few cans of fruit, tuna fish, and a box of half-thawed chicken tenders dropped in the snow.

“Marco?” Jean murmurs after what seems like a long time.

“Yeah?” Marco whispers, cupping Jean’s face where he’s still on top, running a thumb over Jean’s cheek that’s turned ruddy with the cold.

“I’m...” he hesitates, and Marco just waits, almost holding his breath, even though he’s unsure of what Jean’s going to say. “I’m glad we got caught here,” he whispers, tilting his head with the most sentimental expression Marco’s ever seen his conjure up. “I’m glad I’m here with you, having a stupid snowball fight, after you got hit on by a gay shopkeeper in the middle of nowhere.”

Marco starts to laugh, shaking his head, and pulls Jean down into a hug in the snow. He holds on for a long time—not kissing, not speaking, not even moving—just holding him there tight, never wanting to let go.

This is how things should be; this is how he feels the best, complete.

“Can we go home?” he murmurs. “And make shitty chicken tenders?”

“Yeah,” Jean replies into his ear warmly, “let’s go home.”

They both just lie there, and the weight of the word isn’t lost on Marco. He knows that Jean’s aware of it, too, but neither one of them try to explain or contradict it. 

They stay like that for a long time, until finally, it starts to lightly snow again. 

Jean pulls away first, balancing on his knees as he sits up and settles on Marco’s hips.

“Isn’t it weird?” Marco says, smiling up at Jean subtly. “How people always call motel rooms ‘home’ after being there for more than twenty-four hours?”

Jean smiles a little, too. “Yeah,” he nods, agreeing softly.

They both just stare at each other, and Jean looks up into the sky. “Not snowing as hard as before,” he remarks, shifting his gaze back to Marco. His voice is softer as he adds, “It’ll probably start to melt soon.”

“Well,” Marco replies just as softly, grabbing Jean’s hand, “at least we’ll have the finest meal of chicken tenders, right?”

That earns a booming laugh out of Jean, and he scrambles to his feet, holding his hand out to Marco to help him up.

“Only the finest,” he echoes, still laughing and pulling Marco back toward the road.

Marco grins at him in return, trying not to think about their imminent departure the next morning, where they’ll have to join the regular world again.

They walk together, and Jean scoops up the bag without stopping as they manage to get back onto the road, slipping and sliding a bit on the way.

But he doesn’t let go of Marco’s hand.

= = =

They eat dinner in companionable quiet, using up the rest of the bread Jean had retrieved from the car and the newly acquired tuna fish. For dessert, they have the pears out of a can, sharing with two pre-wrapped toothpicks that Jean found in a drawer.

The local news confirms that the storm is supposed to clear up tomorrow, and the broadcaster is no longer enveloped in wind or chill as he points toward the main street, the general store they’d visited that day in view. Snowplows will reportedly be on the roads by five in the morning.

“Checkout is at eleven officially,” Jean says softly as he climbs into the left side of the bed, sliding slowly between the sheets. 

Marco looks over at him where he’s sitting on the edge of the bed, still dressed and holding the remote control, and then he just stares for a moment.

Jean is looking at him sleepily, lying against the pillow with shower-damp hair and a silly smile. Marco knows the expression very well; it means he’ll be asleep in ten minutes, snoring, and then he’ll cuddle up against Marco until he gets an arm around him and finally settle down.

Marco swallows hard.

“Okay,” he says.

Jean cocks his head to the side, frowning a little. “Are you all right?” he asks hesitantly.

Marco forces a smile onto his face and nods. “Just a lot on my mind.”

“You gonna come to bed?” he asks after a few beats of silence. “That snowball fight tired me out today.”

Marco laughs quietly and nods, pressing the power button on the TV remote so it shuts off. 

“You ever think about living in a place like this?” he asks suddenly.

Jean immediately raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t immediately say no. “Uh,” he starts, tilting his head to the side, “I haven’t really thought a lot about where I want to live after college.”

Marco sighs, sliding his jeans off and onto the floor until he’s down to his t-shirt and boxers, and then lies down next to Jean. As he turns onto his side, the coverlet pulls away from Jean slightly which earns a scowl.

“You are such a blanket hog,” he complains, shaking his head as he struggles to pull it back toward himself. 

Marco laughs a little, rising so Jean can reclaim some of the blankets, and then letting his weight settle again. He lies his head on the pillow, looking at Jean, only realizing how stupidly adoring he must appear as Jean clears his throat awkwardly and drops his gaze.

“I don’t know where I want to live either,” Marco whispers after a moment. 

In the back of his mind, he’s afraid of scaring his college-sophomore non-boyfriend best-friend, but he’s quickly realizing he doesn’t have a lot of time left to worry. 

And he can see how the duration of their time together will play out: this trip will end as quickly as it began. Maybe he’ll meet Jean’s mother, and they’ll have a few good days in Trost, enjoy each other’s company before heading back to campus and finishing out the school year.

Marco will agonize over finals, angst to Margit over the phone, and lean on Jean too heavily to maintain his sanity (but do so nonetheless); then, graduation will happen. Jean will attend with all their other friends, dressed up like he was that night at the museum opening, and he’ll want to meet the Bodt family. The Bodt family will want to meet Jean, given how much Marco talks about him.

They’ll fervently promise to stay in touch, write daily e-mails to each other over the summer; but then, in the autumn, Jean will start his junior year and realize how much of his life has yet to be lived.

And then...

Marco has to remind himself to breathe, until he’s unexpectedly startled out of his thoughts.

“Can I say something weird?” Jean asks suddenly. 

Marco blinks, momentarily distracted from his internal panic. “Sure,” he replies curiously, not expecting the question, studying Jean’s face in the dim light of the bedside lamp. “Say whatever you want,” he adds softly.

“You know that thing you asked, about where I want to live?” Jean asks softly.

Marco feels his heart clench, and he forces himself to breathe; he wasn’t expecting an actual response to the question.

“Well, the truth is, I’m not sure,” Jean says very softly, his face the most vulnerable Marco’s ever seen it, and Marco’s lip trembles as Jean reaches out to trace his jaw gently, “but the answer is... I’d want to be with you.” 

“But you’re only a sophomore,” Marco whispers. “I didn’t know what I wanted either at your age.”

He knows it’s the wrong thing to say even as the words leave his mouth, and he blanches. On top of that, of all people to say the wrong thing to, Jean is one of the worst, as Marco has learned over the past year and a half.

But Jean just lies there, and without a hint of anger, replies quietly, “You never know what you want, Marco.” 

And then, Marco’s not sure what’s happening until his face is pressed against Jean’s shoulder and he’s fighting to breathe, Jean’s fingers stroking through his hair. “Now that I’ve given you a weird answer,” Jean continues softly, “can I _ask_ a weird question?”

“Sure,” Marco replies in a whisper, afraid to speak too loud.

Jean says softly into his ear, “You know how I feel, right?”

Marco bites his lip, trying not to let tears spring to his eyes; this entire trip has just been too much.

“I don’t know?” he replies, resenting the waver in his voice.

Jean doesn’t move, but he does stroke Marco’s back now in a gesture that’s obviously intended to be soothing.

“When I first met you,” Jean starts softly, his voice barely audible, “or actually, the very first time I _saw_ you, I lost my shit.”

Marco laughs a little at that, but it’s very hoarse and timid.

“Because you were really...” Jean seems to search for a word, and then settles on, “attractive. You know, like the kid everyone wants to be friends with, who’s also, um, hot.” He clears his throat, but keeps going. “And then you kissed me, and went back on it, and all that other stuff happened...” Jean gives an amused hum, and Marco just waits.

“And then I realized,” he continues more softly, his voice composed and careful, “that you’re nuts.” His tone is fond and affectionate; Marco doesn’t even breathe, focused completely on Jean. “You’re as nuts as the rest of us, and you’re afraid of lots of things. You’re afraid of things you don’t understand, and can’t control.”

Jean sighs, shaking his head a little, but he doesn’t stop speaking. “I love you,” he says firmly, “and that’s how I feel.”

“How long have you felt that way?” Marco whispers, finally exhaling, not brave enough yet to meet Jean’s eyes.

“A while,” Jean admits quietly. “But I wasn’t sure.”

“Not sure how I’d react, or not sure about how you felt?” Marco asks.

“Both,” Jean replies, “but I know how I feel now.”

They lie there in tense silence, and finally, the anxiety explodes. Marco pulls away, sitting up and wrapping his arms around himself, trying to stop the rising panic.

“But what does that mean?” he demands, shaking his head, relieved his eyes have stopped burning. “What am I supposed to do? What’s supposed to happen?”

He stares at Jean with what he knows is a terrified expression, his lip trembling, and Jean returns such a gentle, tender look that he knows he must look completely strung out. He’s barely even making sense, but he can’t stop babbling.

“I don’t want to go to grad school,” he blurts out, shaking his head. “I’m going to disappoint my parents and you’re barely going to even remember me after graduation.” He can feel the tears reappear, but he doesn’t care as a few track down his cheeks and he shudders, “I’m going to lose you.”

Jean is staring at him still, but he hasn’t budged, hasn’t spoken, and hasn’t stopped Marco’s rambles.

“I...” he sniffles, looking away and rubbing the back of his hand over his face, “I’m sorry for this. I’m sorry.”

“Marco?” Jean interrupts calmly.

“What?” Marco whispers, trying to take a deep breath and stop his shoulders from shaking.

“Do you feel the same way about me?” Jean asks softly. Now it’s his turn to look down self-consciously, biting his lip, but he doesn’t withdraw and waits.

Marco just stares in surprise at the unexpected question. 

Jean’s lying on his back, his face the portrait of solemnity, jaw set and mouth straight as he stares at Marco in concern. 

And him, being here so close, is the moment Marco realizes that Jean is home. That no matter where he goes—small towns, big cities, college, motel rooms—Jean is what he calls home.

“Of course I do,” he whispers, running out of words.

“Stop panicking,” Jean whispers back, holding out his hand. “You don’t have to figure that out alone—I’m not going to disappear.” He snorts, and if Marco’s not mistaken, there’s a very bittersweet edge to his voice when he adds, “And I’d never be able to forget you, even if I tried, which I would never do anyway.”

Marco finally lets some of the tension in his body release, and he slowly lies back down next to Jean, where he’s promptly gathered into a tight hug. 

“Will you say it?” Jean murmurs, kissing Marco’s hair.

“Say what?” Marco asks hoarsely, and then realizes what Jean means.

Finally, Marco takes a deep breath and forces himself to calm down. “I love you, too,” he replies in a soft, steady tone. He shakes his head, though, heaving a heavy sigh. “What are we going to do?”

To his surprise, Jean just gives a little smile and shrug, and then leans forward to kiss him. It’s quick and light, but when he pulls back, he answers quietly, “I have no idea, but can we figure it out together?”

“Together?” Marco echoes.

“Yeah,” Jean nods, reaching up now to touch Marco’s face, “like... a couple.”

“Oh,” Marco acknowledges, realization suddenly striking him, “like that.”

“Like that,” Jean repeats.

For once, the answer is simple. “Yes,” Marco replies.

“So, we’re a thing?” The question is so earnest that Marco’s heart aches a little; Jean still seems to think that there’s a possibility the answer is no.

“More than a ‘thing,’” Marco says, his voice stronger as he embraces Jean in return, rubbing his foot against Jean’s under the covers. “But you know I’m going to graduate,” he adds, not wanting to make the point, but unable to ignore reality. Not when it’s this close.

“Want to live in this shitty town?” Jean replies, obviously trying not to smile now. “If you did, I’d at least listen to your argument.”

“You want to live with me?” Marco asks in surprise.

Jean pulls away to give him a serious look—probably more serious than Marco’s ever seen Jean look—and he rests one hand on Marco’s shoulder. “I want to be with you,” he states resolutely. “I don’t mean I want to hang out in your room until you graduate,” he takes a deep breath, obviously struggling to get the words out, but finishes very clearly, “I never want to leave you.”

And the fact is, Marco never wants to leave Jean—he never expected to find a piece of himself the way he has, but that’s how it feels now.

“I never want to leave you either,” he agrees, pushing his forehead against Jean’s. “I don’t know what that means, but...”

“Neither do I,” Jean concurs, reaching up to stroke his fingers through the hair at Marco’s temples, “but I’m pretty sure we can figure it out.”

“I don’t want to hold you back,” Marco whispers.

“I can make my own decisions, Marco,” is Jean’s firm reply, “and this is it.” He sighs, drawing back slightly to kiss Marco’s forehead. “You are the biggest pain the ass I’ve ever met.”

“That’s how I described you to Margit,” Marco laughs weakly, catching Jean’s hand, “after...” He takes a deep breath, but forces himself to continue. “After she asked me if I was in love with you.”

“What’d you say?” Jean asks, squeezing Marco’s hand.

“I didn’t say anything,” Marco whispers, “because it was so pathetically obvious, I didn’t need to.”

Jean’s face sobers, and he looks ahead earnestly. “Do you still want to meet my mom?”

Marco nods, then swallows thickly as he asks, “Will you talk to Margit?” 

“Can I _meet_ Margit?” Jean challenges.

“Will you meet all of them?” Marco counters.

“If I say yes,” Jean says, his voice more raw now, “you can’t renege.”

“Will you meet all of them?” Marco repeats in a whisper. 

“Yeah,” Jean says, smiling a little. “I’d really like that.”

They both sigh softly, and finally, Marco relaxes against Jean. For the first time in months, without the aid of hot water, massages, sex, or even soothing words, his mind is blissfully blank. All he has to focus on is Jean’s breathing which is quickly evening out, and then the soft snore just before he falls into a deep sleep himself.

When he wakes up again, the light is pale, but he can tell it’s sunny already. Jean’s arms are still wrapped around him, and he yawns, trying to suppress a silly smile and failing.

He turns over to press his face against Jean’s chest who immediately accommodates the action, albeit with some grumbling at being disturbed.

Marco takes a moment to stare at him and study his face, and realizing he doesn’t have to be so careful with his sentimentality, reaches up to trace Jean’s features.

Jean’s eyes flutter open, and for one terrible moment, Marco thinks he’s going to reject the intimate touch; instead, though, he just smiles, and presses a kiss to Marco’s palm exactly the same way he had the night before.

“‘Morning,” he greets with a yawn, adjusting the pillows and tangling their legs together. He inhales noisily and lets out the air with a whoosh, groaning. “Ugh, we have to check out at eleven.” 

“Let’s not check out,” Marco blurts out, and then immediately flushes in embarrassment at the absurd notion.

“Why?” Jean asks, sounding more mystified than affronted, though.

“Let’s stay here another day,” Marco whispers, not brave enough to look at Jean. “Just us.”

Jean slowly draws back, and then tips Marco’s chin up so that their eyes meet, before smiling slowly.

“Really?” he asks, looking more like the starry-eyed, bashful freshman Marco first met than current Jean Kirschstein, master of love declarations and life plans. Possible boyfriend.

No—actual boyfriend.

Marco returns a smile just as sweet and nods his head. “Yeah, if you want,” he replies.

“Did I mention I love you?” Jean asks, cocking his head to the side, before grinning and pushing Marco against the mattress. He gets on top—a move Marco happily accommodates by rolling onto his back—and pulls the blankets up over their heads.

It’s dark underneath, and for a moment, Jean just stares, unexpectedly intense. “I love you,” he repeats. “I just...” He shakes his head, offering a sheepish half-smile. “I’ve wanted to say it for a while.”

“Me too,” Marco replies, and then gasps softly as Jean leans forward to kiss at his jaw. He presses both hands against the small of Jean’s back, pulling their bodies closer, before sliding his fingers up to strong shoulder blades that flex as Jean’s mouth moves to his neck.

“Jean,” Marco sighs, letting his hands drop as he tilts his head back. Jean immediately seizes the opportunity to kiss down along Marco’s windpipe, careful and almost reverent, before reaching the hollow of his throat. He sucks a little, and then abruptly stops when he realizes what he’s doing. Jean has a tendency to mark if he doesn’t catch himself.

“Sorry,” he mumbles, “didn’t meant to—”

“You can leave marks,” Marco offers abruptly, reaching up to pull him down for another kiss.

Jean makes a surprised sound that borders on a squeak, amusing enough that Marco might laugh if he wasn’t already distracted.

“Leave as many marks as you want,” he whispers into Jean’s ear, before darting his tongue out to lick and run the edge of his teeth over the lobe.

That gets the desired reaction, and Jean lets out a low, rich groan, pressing his hips down.

At this point, Jean’s body is familiar to Marco’s hands, but he touches differently now. Every time Jean gasps, moans, murmurs Marco’s name, it takes on a completely new significance. 

It could be any other morning, afternoon, or night for them—sex during a study break or a welcome wake-up before going to class.

But this is about slowing down, about the way Jean’s breath flutters against Marco’s neck in time with his pulse, about how fragile skin can be by itself.

They explore each other for hours without speaking, without even coming, the undisturbed air of the motel room filled with sunlight and stillness.

And when afternoon finally arrives, and Jean has traced every single line of Marco’s body with the same care he sketches, Marco doesn’t mind that it stopped snowing.

The roads are clear when they leave, and Marco is happier than he can ever remember, laughing as Jean complains about shitty local radio stations.

“So,” he says with a smile, looking up into the clear blue sky through the car window, “how much longer to Trost?”


End file.
